


At Seventeen

by archipelago



Series: At Seventeen 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Cuddling, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff, Frottage, Holding Hands, Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Making Out, Minor Character Death, Minor Drug Use, Punklock, Romance, SO MUCH FLUFF, Teenlock, Treklock, kind of chronically adorable probably, no seriously i think i went insane while writing chapter 7, oh and suddenly angst i guess, sad feelings smut, trekkies, truly epic amounts of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 31
Words: 53,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Day OTP Challenge -- teen!lock style!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this chapter awhile ago, and then I never wrote the second. Since then, I've regularly opened it up, stared at it, thought, "yes, this is a thing I should continue," and then promptly closed it. Now, however, I am horribly stuck on my other projects and alskdjfadf I GIVE UP FOREVER. This one is the easiest to write, and probably the most fun, and dammit, teenlock is my secret shame. So here we are.
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me if I don't update on time. I really want to challenge myself to update every day.
> 
> Named for the song "At Seventeen" by Janis Ian, which is one of the saddest songs ever written and has nothing to do with this story at all except for the fact that it was stuck in my head as I was posting it and I couldn't think of another title.

They are running, feet pounding against the pavement. John keeps up fairly well; Sherlock's legs are longer, but his spot on the rugby team has kept John is good shape. Their pursuers—Anderson and his friends again, doesn't that kid ever get tired of being an arse—are just behind them. Sherlock rounds a corner and John follows, turning blindly—

—only to nearly have his arm ripped from its socket as Sherlock grabs his hand and pulls him into an alley. The leather of Sherlock's glove pushes into John's cheek as the other boy clumsily tries to cover his mouth. He's not dropped John's hand, and instead squeezes it painfully in warning to keep quiet. Like John couldn't figure that out on his own, or something. John rolls his eyes, but the effect is lost in the shadows of the alleyway.

Anderson and his fellow thugs go charging by their hiding spot without pausing to look around, and both boys relax. Sherlock removes his hand from John's face.

“A little warning next time, yeah?” John rolls his shoulder. “That bloody hurt, you berk.”

“Apologies,” says Sherlock, sounding entirely unapologetic.

“What did you say to them this time, anyway?”

Light cuts across Sherlock's face as he leans out to check the street. It's clear, but he wants to linger another moment, so he doesn't tell John. “I may have pointed out a few of Sally Donovan's less virtuous actions in front of his friends.”

John looks at him expectantly. He receives silence as a reply, so he prods, “And?”

“Well, perhaps a teacher was present. Maybe two. No more than four.”

John moves to smack his hand against his forehead. In doing so, he realizes that Sherlock has yet to let go of him. He studies their joined hands—Sherlock's leather glove is soft and smooth against the chapped skin on the back of his hand—and then glances up at his friend. He thinks Sherlock might be blushing, but it's hard to tell in the dim light.

Sherlock pulls his hand away, flexes his fingers. “I'm—I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking.”

“You're always thinking.”

“Yes, well—“

Listening to Sherlock stumble over excuses sounds charming, but John isn't feeling patient. Tentatively, as if expecting the other boy to bite, he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hand back, threading those long, elegant fingers through his own.

John smiles. “Idiot.”


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

Three days later, they are in class. After escaping Anderson, they had walked hand-in-hand to the tube, but as they were going opposite directions, they'd had to let each other go. Since that afternoon (seventy-one hours, twelve minutes, but who's counting?), neither of them has brought up the incident.

The school day is winding down, and as the teacher reminds them of their upcoming assignment, their classmates start to shuffle their papers and stash their books back in their knapsacks. Amid the dull roar of the classroom, John leans over to Sherlock.

“Do you want to come to mine for dinner?” he asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “Your parents don't mind?”

John stands, throws his bag over his shoulder. “They, uh, won't be there,” He wills himself not to turn red. He fails. “Harry has some sort of play going on in her class, and they told me I don't have to go. I have money for take away, and I thought...”

Sherlock, still in his seat, stares up at John. John wonders what his friend can see—is John's nervousness written in the sweat beading his hairline, or in the way he can't seem to stop tapping his fingers against his leg? What about his hope? His fear?

People are beginning to file out the door when Sherlock finally replies, “Yes, that sounds good.”

“Yeah? Great! I mean, that's great. That's good.”

Sherlock stands and the pair of them filter into the hall, joining the mass of people heading toward the exit. They pass through the doorway and hop down the front steps, John nodding at Lestrade and a rugby mate as they pass by. The crowd peters out past the gate and dissipates within the next two blocks as they head toward John's house. They head to the tube station, running down the steps. At the bottom, John casually reaches for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his back. “Now?”

“Yes? I mean...” John can feel himself blushing. He wonders if he looks especially pink due to the fluorescent lighting. It's not an especially helpful thought. “Well, only if you want, of course. And it's okay, you know, if you don't want to, I just thought that...the other day...”

“Oh God. Will you stop babbling if I agree to hold your hand?”

John shoves his hands deeps into the pockets of his coat. “Nevermind. It's fine. It's all fine.”

Sherlock's eyes go wide and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but at that moment, the train arrives. They pile on, John in a seat and Sherlock holding onto the rail above his head. The ride is too noisy to be much good for conversation, but even when they reach their stop and walk the two blocks back to John's house, they do it in perfect silence.

Key in the lock, front door shoved wide open. The house is dark and quiet. John is overcome by the peacefulness of it; it's hard to have a relaxing moment when Harry is around. She's going to be a terror when she grows up, he already knows it.

“I think I'll just get something delivered, if that's okay with you,” John says as he shucks his coat and hangs it next to the door, “Don't much feel like going back out in the cold to pick anything up.”

Sherlock shrugs in response. He's already removed his own coat and folded it neatly over his arm; as vain as he is about that bloody coat, he's probably waiting for John to get him a hanger so that he doesn't ruin the shape of it. Of course, that's exactly what John does, even making sure that it gets properly hung up in the front hall closet, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

There is a mess of menus on the kitchen counter, along with a twenty pound note and a message from John's mum that says they'll be at Harry's play until at least 8:30. John knows that good manners dictate he should ask his guest his opinion on dinner, but really, Sherlock never has opinions on food. Ever. It would be more helpful to ask a brick wall. Grabbing a Chinese menu and the phone, John orders as much as the money will cover—far too much food, really, but he hopes that Sherlock might be interested once it's sitting in front of him. At the very least, he'll have lunch for tomorrow.

The employee on the phone quotes him a half hour until delivery, and John hesitates in the kitchen, wondering how to fill the time. It's stupid, he tells himself, to be so worried; after all, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, his best mate. They hang out by themselves all the time. There's no reason this should feel so different.

Well, no reason except for the fact that they held hands the other day, and then John tried to do that again and was summarily rejected.

He sighs and scowls at the floor. He'd done that thing that Sherlock is always going on about—making assumptions without the proper data. Just because his friend hadn't minded the action on Monday didn't mean that it was alright to do it again. John should have asked. They should have had a conversation and not just ignored the issue for days.

He feels a right idiot, and he still isn't sure how to act around Sherlock before the food arrives, so John goes to the cabinet and fetches himself a glass. He fills it with cool water from the tap and holds it against his cheek before taking a long gulp.

“Aren't you going to offer me something to drink, as well?” 

Sherlock's voice comes from behind him, and John nearly jumps out of his skin as he turns around. His friend is leaning against the doorway, smirking. John flips a two-fingered salute and asks, “Thirsty?”

Sherlock says, “No.” He then turns and swans out of the room.

John dumps the rest of the water down the drain and leaves his glass in the sink. He wanders back out into the living room, where Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the sofa. He is perfectly centered, an equal amount of open space on either side.

It's not the world's largest sofa, and John pauses, considering his options: is this some sort of invitation? Is he meant to choose a side, any side, or is Sherlock telling him in his own, Sherlockian way that he wants the sofa to himself and John is officially banished to the armchair?

Neither of them say a word as John stares helplessly from the doorway.

It's tempting, to think that Sherlock wants him there, but as John takes a step toward the couch, he remembers Sherlock's face as he put his arms behind his back to avoid holding hands. With a sigh, he settles himself into the armchair, curling up.

“So,” John says.

Sherlock leans back into the couch and crosses his arms in front of himself. “So,” he answers, his tone a little sharp. He doesn't respond when John quirks a brow.

“How are...classes?”

“For the love of—” Sherlock starts, then abruptly stops. He runs his hands over his face. “I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to offend you. You needn't act this way.”

John frowns. “What way am I acting?”

“As if you're so hurt because I wouldn't hold you bleeding hand when you haven't intimated that that was something you'd like to continue. And now you go and sit across from me and give me those eyes—“

“What eyes?”

“Don't pretend you don't know which I mean!”

He really doesn't know, but John is wise enough to realise that saying so is not a good idea. “Look, Sherlock, it's fine, alright? I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable earlier. I just thought...” he chews his bottom lip, trying to find the words, “I mean, after Monday, I thought that was something I'd like to do again. Hold your hand, I mean.” He is going red again, he can feel it, but he powers through. “I should have checked with you, or brought it up, and I'm sorry. But as long as I haven't freaked you out too badly, as far as I'm concerned, nothing has to change.”

It hurts, a bit, to say those words, but John does mean them. Sherlock is the most singular person he has every met. John can find someone to snog anywhere; he is not likely to find another friend like Sherlock Holmes.

“God, but you're an idiot,” Sherlock huffs.

That wasn't the answer John had expected. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock scoots to the left on the couch and motions toward the open space. “You're lucky I'm being patient with you. Get over here.”

“I just,” John frowns, “what?”

“I'm not good at any of this, John,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit lost, “so I'll likely do insensitive things all the time and forget to take your feelings into account—“

“So, business as usual then?”

Sherlock glares at him. “Are you going to join me or not?”

Cautiously, John stands up from the chair and settles to the far right of the couch, leaning heavily into the arm rest. Sherlock rolls his eyes and moves so that his right side is pressed into John's left. He scans John's face and then slowly, deliberately places his head on his friend's shoulder.

John looks down and gets a nose full of curly black hair. “What's this, then?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock says, turning into John's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please visit me at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for the beta and for not complaining when I send rambling 1 am emails about plans for future chapters.


	3. Watching a Movie

The buzzer rings, and the two of them jump apart.

“That’s probably dinner,” John says, standing quickly. He notices Sherlock’s _of-course-it-is-don’t-talk-if-you’re-going-to-be-boring_ face but chooses to ignore it.

The money is on the counter where he left it, and he grabs it before he opens the front door. The delivery man waits while John checks their order. Everything looks right--it's a bit astounding, how much food he ordered--so he hands over the note and tells the man to keep the change. Heading back into the kitchen, weighed down by the enormous plastic bag, John nearly runs straight into Sherlock.

“My God, John,” Sherlock stares at their dinner, “who are you planning to feed?”

John rolls his eyes and deposits the food on the counter. He opens the top box before handing it over to the other boy.

“That one’s beef and broccoli,” he says, as he places a pair of chopsticks on the lid. He grabs the next box for himself and heads back toward the sofa. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

Sherlock pads along behind him. “Why?”

“Because it’s nice,” John says, as he places his dinner on the coffee table and heads over to the shelf where the Watsons keep their DVDs, “to sit together and eat dinner and watch a movie. Or, well, it seems like it would be.”

With a put upon sigh, Sherlock drops his Chinese by John’s and joins him. He stands a bit too close, so that his front is nearly pressed against John’s back, and it makes John’s stomach go pleasantly liquid. He resists the urge to lean back into the taller boy, and instead says, “How about—“

“No.”

A frown. “But you don’t—“

“Yes, I do. No to Bond. Especially no to Star Wars. You don’t even like that version. If I have to listen one more time to you rant about how Hans shot first—“

At that, John burst into laughter. “Hans? No, Sherlock, Han. Han Solo. Not Hans.”

Sherlock steps to the side. Before John can complain about the loss of proximity, Sherlock grabs a case off the highest shelf and shoves the DVD into his hands. “Let’s watch this.”

He turns and flounces back to the couch, sitting in the same position he was in before the delivery arrived. He unwraps his chopsticks and picks up his beef and broccoli, completely ignoring the fact that John is staring at him, holding up the film.

“This?” John asks.

“Isn’t it a classic or something?”

John lets out a long-suffering sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “Sherlock, this is a three hour film about a Brit in the desert.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock declares, taking a bite of broccoli. He chews, swallows, and then adds, “We should be able to finish it just as your parents return.”

John does not want to watch _Lawrence of Arabia_. It’s his dad’s movie; his mom bought it for him last Christmas. The plastic packaging is still intact, which shows just how appreciated _that_ gesture was. Furthermore, he can’t imagine Sherlock—Sherlock _Bond-is-beyond-dull-John-how-can-you-stand-to-sit-through-this-for-more-than-a-few-minutes_ Holmes—finding the patience to sit through a film where half the bloody thing is scenes of men riding around on camels.

He’d kind of wanted to watch something cozier. Like a horror film! Or, well, Bond. But that doesn’t count; John pretty much always wants to watch Bond.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice slices through his thoughts.

John shakes his head a bit, coming out of his reverie. “Hm?”

“That movie is going to be pretty boring, isn’t it?”

“I saw it once on telly when I was a kid,” John says, “and it was pretty much the most boring event of my entire life to date.”

Sherlock stares down at his meal, and then seems to steel himself. He looks up at John and holds his gaze, unblinking. “Well, then we probably won’t end up watching most of it. Will we?”

John frowns in confusion, and then— _oh_. Oh! He walks as casually as he can manage to the DVD player and inserts the disc, just managing not to bounce up and down in excitement. He flicks on the telly and then goes back to the seat at Sherlock’s right. Sherlock smiles at him as he sits; it’s just the barest upturn in the corner of his mouth, and yet it’s the first time John has ever seen that expression on his best friend’s face. It’s nearly…shy.

Grabbing his lo mein, John settles against the arm rest. Sherlock leans into his side and as the credits start to roll, he abandons his beef and broccoli on the coffee table. Normally, John would protest that. Sherlock hardly eats enough, what with his weird obsession with digestion. Now, however, Sherlock uses the opportunity to curl his legs up onto the sofa and rests his weight entirely against John, who promptly abandons his dinner as well.

Twenty minutes into the film, T.E. Lawrence is being given a new assignment, and John is bored out of his skull. He looks covertly to his left.

Sherlock is…staring at the telly with the kind of focus usually reserved for humiliating Anderson.

“Enjoying the movie?” John asks, vacillating somewhere between hurt and baffled.

“Shh,” Sherlock replies, never taking his eyes from the screen. It is the last thing he says for three hours.

\--

When John’s parents walk in that evening, Mr. Watson with a sleeping Harry hoisted over his shoulder, the boys are on either side of the couch and Lawrence has just been promoted to Colonel.

Mrs. Watson steps behind the couch, runs a hand over John’s hair. “Are you two watching _Lawrence of Arabia_?”

“Sherlock really likes it,” John answers, heaving a sigh.

“Shh,” says Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I am weirdly obsessed with the movie Lawrence of Arabia. John speaks the truth: it is over three hours along. There are, indeed, long stretches of film where it's just long shots of dudes on camels. It is also one of the most beautifully filmed movies you'll ever see. If you like films that challenge you to think, you may enjoy it.
> 
> And because it is a fascinating portrait of a man who thinks himself extraordinary (and whether or not you agree with him is up to you) and lets his arrogance rule his actions, I rather think Sherlock would like it, as well.
> 
> Also, the "Hans" quote is slightly lifted from the YouTube video "Star Wars: Retold," which is extremely funny.
> 
> Check out [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com) for updates and general insanity. :)


	4. On a Date

The next day at school, Sherlock barely speaks. When John tries to instigate conversation, the only reply he gets is a scowl and a hurried, "Shut up, I'm thinking."

"About what?" John asks, but Sherlock is already far away inside his own head, fingertips pressed together in front of his lips. 

It's what Sherlock does, John knows. They've been friends for months now, and this has happened several times. Sherlock becomes fixated on something, and he gives it the whole of his attention, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. John has no idea what's got into Sherlock's head, but due to the fact that his friend is steadfastly ignoring him, it is safe to assume that, whatever it is, it isn't him.

It's stupid, that that bothers him a little. John knows what Sherlock is like; he _likes_ what Sherlock is like. He doesn't want the other boy to change. That doesn't stop him from wishing, deep down, that Sherlock would at least deign to give him a tenth of his attention.

It's hopeless, however. Sherlock is locked up in his mind, and he has never given John the key. He doesn't speak once throughout the entire school day. Twenty minutes into the morning, John gives up on engaging him in any sort of conversation. Sherlock does not seem to notice.

\--

When the bell rings at the end of the day, John shoulders his backpack and exits the school without waiting. It's a little petty, he knows, but several hours of being ignored can get to a person. Plus, there would be little point in waiting, what with Sherlock in his state of catatonia. It's not like they'd talk or laugh or hold hands on their way to the tube. More likely than not, walking home from school would involve making sure Sherlock didn't accidentally wander into traffic.

At that thought, John pauses. Maybe he _should_ wait...

Greg Lestrade is outside at his usual haunt, leaning against the rail at the bottom of the steps. He's chatting with Molly Hooper from John's science class.

“Watson,” Lestrade nods at him, as he does every day. They are on the rugby team together, but they haven't seen much of each other since the season ended. Still debating whether or not he should go back and forcibly remove Sherlock from his desk, John heads over to the pair of them. “Hey, how are you?”

"Alright," Greg looks surprised. “You’re not hurrying off with your shadow?”

“My shadow?”

“The weird kid—Holmes, isn’t it?”

Molly elbows Greg and ignores his ‘umph’ of surprise. “Sherlock’s not weird, he’s brill!” She smiles at the ground as she says, “Remember in bio when no one would partner him for dissection? He still finished before everyone else and got the highest mark in class.”

John notices Molly's small, secret smile, her bashful tone. The deduction is so easy that he doubts Sherlock would even be impressed: Molly's got a bi of a crush, hasn't she? It would be rather sweet if John weren't feeling the overwhelming urge to tell her to piss off. He's so surprised by his own possessiveness that it takes him a moment to register Lestrade's comment.

When he does, however, he is supremely confused. People think that Sherlock is _his_ shadow? Surely, they must have noticed how John is the one who trots along behind him, panting for his attention? John has spent the past six months convinced that his affections were constantly, boldly written on his face. He wrinkles his nose. “He hardly follows me around like some--"

Greg cuts him off with a snort and Molly nods her head at something behind him. When John turns around, Sherlock is standing there, frowning. “You didn’t wait for me after class.”

“You’ve barely spoken today,” John shrugs, “I figured you were busy. You know,” he taps his temple with a finger, "up there."

“Well, I’m not.”

John blinks. “O...kay.” 

He turns and waves a hand at Greg and Molly, who return the gesture. When he walks away, Sherlock keeps stride at his side. They slip out the front gate and go down their usual path. “You done meditating on the glory of _Lawrence of Arabia_ or whatever it is that's got you all quiet?”

“Are you hungry?”

The non-sequitor throws John so much that he doesn't manage to tell Sherlock that he really _isn't_ hungry before his friend is hurrying off in a different direction. It seems that that was one of those questions Sherlock asks because he knows he ought to, even though he has no interest in listening to the answer. They end up walking a few blocks to a little Italian restaurant where, for some reason John doesn’t understand, they are treated like royalty.

Angelo, the owner, places a candle on what he claims is his best table and then leaves the boys with their menus. “It’s more romantic,” he tells them with a sly smile.

John frowns at the candle. “What just happened?”

“I once did Angelo a favor,” Sherlock explains, as if that provides any sort of enlightenment. "Order whatever you like. It'll be free."

When Sherlock doesn't elaborate on what kind of favor, John lets it go. If it were important, there is no way his friend would miss the change to brag. Sherlock likes nothing more than hearing someone praise his cleverness. Instead of asking, John studies his menu. It’s too early for dinner, and he has mounds of Chinese at home that he needs to eat, but Angelo’s emphatically polite treatment makes him feel obligated to order something. “What are we doing here?”

“We’re on a date.”

“Oh,” then, “what?”

“Isn’t that what people do?” Sherlock asks. He's using his most imperious tone, but there is something in the way his eyes move too quickly across John’s face that makes him think that Sherlock truly isn’t sure. John smiles and feels a bit bad for being so annoyed all day. More than anyone else, he knows what Sherlock is like when he is considering something: it has the full weight of his attention, and everything else falls away.

He always comes back to John, though. Eventually.

“So, you really liked that movie, huh?” John asks, “Wouldn’t have expected you to enjoy anything that requires you to sit still for three and a half hours.”

“Is this thing between you and me a blade with two edges?”

Thing? John recognizes the quote from _Lawrence of Arabia_ , but he doesn't understand why Sherlock is bringing it up. At a loss, he inspects his cutlery. “I don’t really know what you mean.”

“A ‘double-edged sword?’ Come on, John, you’re not that stupid.”

“I know the phrase,” John scowls, “but I don’t understand how it relates to…”

He nearly uses the word ‘us,’ and then bites it back. He and Sherlock held hands for fifteen minutes four days ago. Yesterday, they cuddled on a sofa for an hour, at which time Sherlock became so engrossed in a film that he moved away so as to suffer no distractions. They aren’t really an ‘us.' Not yet, at least. 

Sherlock traces a finger along the ring of the top of his glass. “We’re friends, right?”

Is that even a question, John wonders. His throat feels a little tight as he squeaks out, “Yes, of course!”

“I can hear you panicking from here,” Sherlock says. He kicks John’s ankle under the table. “Stop it, it’s annoying.”

Leaning down to rub the offended ankle, John glares. “Yes, well. You’re always annoying, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

“That statement is entirely incorrect. You typically complain about it several times each day,” Sherlock smirks to himself, but the expression falls quickly from his face. He clears his throat. “I don’t have friends, you know. Just the one.”

John sits up, leans forward across the table. Hesitantly, he reaches out and touches Sherlock’s hand. For a moment, Sherlock does not react, but then he flips his hand palm-up and tangles their fingers.

“This thing between us won’t change that,” John says, his voice steady.

Sherlock’s fingers clutch his own tighter. “You don’t know that. I just—it could hurt us both, I think.”

“A blade with two edges.”

“Indeed.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes as John considers what Sherlock’s just said. Then it hits him: is this what his friend was pondering all day? Something warm blooms in John’s chest; Sherlock is concerned, Sherlock _cares_. This is as close to an emotional confession as John imagines he’ll ever get.

“We’ll have to be very careful with how we wield it,” John tells him, eventually.

Sherlock nods. When Angelo appears, he does not drop John's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to read my rants about this challenge? Of course you do! [My tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, thanks to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for her help. :)


	5. Kissing

Sherlock sidles up to him, nearly tucking himself into John's side. John reaches his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He can barely see Sherlock in the dim light of the cab, but when they pass under a streetlamp, the boy is smiling.

Stretching his neck, Sherlock puts his lips near John's ear and says, “Our driver is gay.”

That low baritone goes straight down John's spine, making certain parts of his body tingle pleasantly. It's so distracting that he hardly understands what Sherlock's just said to him. “Hmm?”

“Our driver,” Sherlock repeats, his breath hot against John's cheek, “he's gay.”

“How can you tell?”

“Personal grooming. Did you notice the product in his hair?”

John hadn't; it was a bit too dark to see that detail when they entered the cab after Angelo's. He turns to look at Sherlock, and their faces nearly collide. They are close, so close that it's hard for him to be able to clearly make out his friend's eyes, which seem to blur together in the middle of his face. Neither of them move apart. “So he styles his hair, so what? So do I.”

At that, Sherlock snorts. His left knee bumps against John's right. It could be an accident, but—no bump in the road, no sharp sudden turns. John presses his knee back, places his hand on Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock's breath hitches, but he manages to find his tongue. “You wash your hair. There's a difference. He also obviously plucks and maintains his eyebrows. Look at the shape of them, perfect and symmetrical. No one's brows grow that way.” Sherlock leans past John's cheek, finds his ear again. “Plus, he's watching us in the rearview mirror. Judging by the way he keeps fidgeting in the seat, he rather likes what he sees.”

The taxi comes to an abrupt stop, and the cabbie sounds breathless when he tells them they've arrived. John moves for his wallet, but Sherlock's already thrown bills at the man (when has Sherlock ever paid for a cab, ever?) and exited onto the sidewalk. John scoots across the seat, trying not to flush when he notices the way the driver's eyes follow him.

The cab pulls away from the kerb, leaving the two boys in silence. John shifts awkwardly on his feet. For some reason, now that they've allowed themselves to move apart, it seems impossible to come together again. Even with a stranger in the front seat, the cab had felt close, intimate. Now, they are overwhelmed with space.

God, John wants to kiss him.

Summoning his courage, he takes a step toward Sherlock, who watches him come closer but makes no effort to replicate the movement.

John takes a deep breath. “D'you want--”

“I'm afraid my mouth tastes like gnocchi,” Sherlock blurts. He looks briefly horrified, and then immediately drops his gaze to the ground. 

John cracks a smile. “I don't mind.”

“You might, though.”

Before he can second guess himself, John goes up on his toes, grabs the other boy by the shoulders, and presses his mouth to Sherlock's. It is nothing fancy; neither of them attempt to open their mouths, or mash their faces together. Still, John thinks that there is a certain pleasure in being this close, feeling the gentle pressure of lips against his own, living this moment with the person he likes best in the world.

He pulls away, and Sherlock follows him, bending forward so that his forehead rests against John's. He stays there a moment before straightening.

“Next time,” Sherlock says, straightening his scarf, “I want to use tongue.”

John laughs. Leave it to Sherlock to say exactly what he means.

Still, he replies, “I wouldn't be opposed to that experiment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Struggled a bit with this one. Almost said, "screw it, I don't NEED to do the entire thing in 30 days..."
> 
> I rallied, but it was not easy! I really want to finish the entire challenge on time. If I start to get lazy, someone come kick my ass, please. :) Visit me at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com).
> 
> And, again, thanks go to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe).


	6. Wearing each other's clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big jump in kudos-es last chapter. Thanks, friends. :)

Harry is a menace!

She’d been angry that he hadn’t gone to her play, despite the fact that it was for _babies_ and she knew ahead of time that Mum and Dad had told him he did not have to attend. Then, she’d followed him around all weekend, moaning and crying because John wouldn’t play with her. He wasn’t interested in giving Barbie another haircut, or having a water gun fight (honestly, it’s winter, Harry, do you want pneumonia?), or reading the fourth Harry Potter book aloud to her. With the way she was acting, anyone would have thought she was three instead of eight.

And perhaps John was a touch irritable this weekend--not that he'd ever tell his little sister why. When the cab had dropped him off at his, he’d kissed Sherlock goodbye. Sherlock had seemed amenable to further kissing. Then he hadn’t texted John once in two days.

Two. Days.

Sherlock Holmes is addicted to his mobile. The thing practically lives in his hand. He is constantly fiddling with it, texting people. He never says who he is messaging either, even though John knows that he and Sherlock’s older brother are the only two people in the boy’s contacts. Since they exchanged numbers six months ago, Sherlock has texted John every day, twenty times a day.

Until, of course, the weekend when they actually kissed. Then it’s radio silence.

So it’s not entirely John’s fault that he was short with Harry throughout the weekend. It’s Sherlock’s. Had he texted John as often as he normally did, then John would have been in a better mood, and he would have felt more agreeable and probably would have helped Harry break the bonds of gender perception by shaving Barbie’s head.

But Sherlock didn’t, so John didn’t, so Harry took the very scissors she'd planned to use on Barbie and instead applied them to John’s winter coat.

The little menace!

He’d gone to get his coat out of the front hall closet this morning, and when he’d seen it on the hanger, his jaw had dropped. The sleeves were a honeycomb of holes and small cuts; the hem had been shredded into slivers. Safety scissors his arse!

Harry’d still been asleep, since primary school starts a bit later, and it was only his Mum telling him she’d have a proper talk with his sister and promising to take him shopping for a new coat after school that kept him from marching upstairs to shake her awake.

Well, that and the fact that he was going to be late for school if he didn’t leave that moment.

Before he headed out, he'd made sure to double up on jumpers. The temperatures in the past week have been frigid, however, and even that extra layer is doing his little good. By the time he’s outside the school's front gate, his fingers are blue. John pulls the sleeves down over his hands.

Sherlock is inside in the courtyard, waiting. He looks the same as always: mobile in hand, scarf twined round his neck, long coat with the collar turned up against the wind. He seems so terribly normal--his mobile isn't broken, he doesn't seem to be worried or preoccupied with some sort of emergency. No outward indication that anything might have prevented him from being able to text.

John is so frustrated with stupid Harry and stupid Sherlock and stupid _everyone in the world_ that something inside of him boils.

When Sherlock finally notices him, he frowns. “Where is your coat? It’s below freezing.”

“Is it?” John shoots back, irritable. “This must be why you think you’d make such a great detective. Never would have noticed that one on my own.”

He stomps past Sherlock and enters the school building. It feels so warm after the long trip in the bitter cold that he stands in the hallway for a long moment, soaking in the heat. Someone jostles him and he heads to his locker, drops off one of his two jumpers, and then goes straight to his tutor group.

\--

Later, as he rushes down the hall between classes, John stops at his locker to grab his book for trigonometry. Inside is Sherlock’s great coat.

A sticky note on the collar reads: “Wear this home. SH”

\--

_I am a berk._

John sends the text and receives nothing in response. He shifts his books on his desk to hide what he is doing and tries again.

_What will you wear? I don’t want you to be cold, either._

Nothing. John sighs and leaves his phone on his lap as he tries to concentrate on Mr. Brewster going over the finer points of trig. Twenty minutes later, he is doodling in the margins of his notebook. He jumps a bit in his seat when his mobile buzzes against his thigh.

_Stole your jumper. SH_

\--

He does not see Sherlock that afternoon. Though they have the final class of the day together, the other boy is suspiciously absent. When the bell rings, John retrieves the coat from his locker. It’s way too big on him; instead of hitting him just below the knee, the hem comes closer to his ankle. The tips of his fingers stick out of the sleeves. He feels like a little kid playing in his dad’s clothes.

Sherlock is not waiting in the courtyard. He is not outside the gate. John runs into Molly, who says he wasn’t in their shared Literature class that afternoon.

John gets out his mobile. _Where are you?_

The reply is instant this time. _Ditched. School is boring. Got something going on, if you want to help. SH_

_What kind of something?_

_Someone responded to the ad I put up last month. I have a case. I told Mycroft to send a car for you. Do you see it? SH_

John is stunned. Someone actually replied to the ad?

They’d posted it on Craigslist a month earlier, when Sherlock had told John that he was so bored he was certain his brain was cannibalizing itself. He’d then proceeded to moan and groan and fling himself about John’s room until John had opened his laptop, pulled up Craigslist, and convinced Sherlock that the only way to become a detective would be to get some cases and solve them--build his reputation.

He hadn’t expected anyone to respond. John shrugs up his shoulders, burying his nose in the collar of the coat. Could this be dangerous?

A moment later, a black car pulls up to the kerb. The driver gets out and pulls open the back door for him. In the warmth of the car, John notices that Sherlock’s coat rather smells like him.

It’s pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Aaaand many thanks go to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe)!


	7. Cosplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late again, but this chapter was a pain in the ass to write. What seemed like a fun idea turned into a mini case fic and what was meant to be around 1000 words became nearly 4000. I am not a very speedy writer--1000 words/day is about my pace. 4000 felt a bit marathon-y.
> 
> Also, keep an eye out, as I'll likely be making minor edits to previous chapters in a few days. The love sureaintmebabe gave everything a once over--unfortunately, I was so preoccupied with this craziness that I haven't had a chance to implement anything she recommended. Tomorrow! Or the next day if tomorrow's prompt randomly EATS MY ENTIRE DAY (thanks, cosplay chapter!).
> 
> Now, without further ado...

“Come out, John. I need to make sure that it looks right.”

“No.”

“Yes! I told you, my client has requested that we show up to his little—gathering-thing, and we have to look authentic.”

John surveys himself in the bathroom mirror. When he'd arrived at Sherlock's house, the other boy had thrust a ball of fabric into his arms and told him to go change. Now, he is wearing an authentic-looking replica of Captain James T. Kirk's uniform. He frowns; yellow is not his color.

“It's a con, Sherlock. A convention. For people who like _Star Trek_. You want us to go to a Trekkie Convention.” He can hardly believe the words that are coming out of his own mouth. He opens the door and stares at his friend. “How are we even going to blend in at this thing? Neither of us know anything about _Star Trek_ , and we'll be hanging around with people who can probably tell you what color socks Spock wore in episode 4, or whatever.”

Sherlock holds his mobile up, his eyes flicking back and forth between the screen and John. He flips it so that John can see what he's staring at: a picture of young William Shatner, posed on the bridge of a starship. John barely suppresses a groan.

“Not bad,” Sherlock says, reaching out to fiddle with the collar of John's shirt. John bats his hands away. “A surprisingly good costume, considering.”

A pause. “Considering what?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock throws an outfit over his own shoulder and traipses into the bath. His voice carries, even after he closes the door. “I got the email Friday evening, but when I dropped by the convention, I stuck out in the crowd. Not good for getting in the information I needed. I was forced to buy our uniforms last minute from eBay early Saturday morning. Got a message alert saying they'd arrived just before lunch today, so I ditched and came back here to make sure they were acceptable.”

“Mycroft didn't stop you?”

Sherlock snorts. “I got a rather nasty text message, but that's about it. I doubt he'll tell Mummy and Father, as he's meant to be staying here this week while they're on holiday, and he's done nothing of the sort.”

The door opens, and Sherlock exits in black pants and a blue shirt. He fiddles with the emblem, which seems to be coming away from the fabric, and heaves a sigh. “It'll do, I suppose.”

He then proceeds to throw something at John, who catches it when it bounces off his chest. John stares down at the object—or rather, objects. Sherlock's just tossed him a baggie full of hair pins.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” John wonders aloud, imagining all the terrible things Sherlock could possibly do to his hair.

“They're for me, idiot. I stole them from Mummy. My character has straight hair,” he grabs up his mobile and scrolls around before showing John the picture of Spock he'd downloaded, “and I didn't fancy a bowl cut. I bought a wig. I need help pinning my hair.”

Sherlock perches on the end of his bed and gestures for John to get on with it. John stares down at the plastic bag in his hand. “I have no idea how to pin hair.”

“How hard can it be?” Sherlock replies, still flicking through Star Trek stills on his mobile. “Girls manage it every day. Don't you have a little sister?”

Huffing, John steps behind his friend. He drops the bag on the bed next to Sherlock and fishes a bobby pin out of it. “I don't exactly play with her hair, though.”

Sherlock doesn't respond, so John takes a section of his hair and threads the pin through. It hangs limply against the back of Sherlock's neck. Not exactly progress. With a sigh, he tries to jam the hair pin up against the other boy's skull. Sherlock yowls when he accidentally gets stabbed in the back of the head, but after another try or two John pretty much figures it out.

“Hand me another pin,” John orders. He holds a lock of hair against the back of Sherlock's head and reaches out his left hand. Sherlock fishes in the bag and deposits a pin in John's open palm. “So, what did this person hire you to do, anyway?”

“My client is a thirty-eight year old man named Dennis McIntire. Or is it David? It hardly matters. He is the organizer for the London Star Trek convention, which began on Friday morning and runs through this evening. He was very excited to be able to display the original model for the spaceship—I can't remember the name of it, but apparently it's important to him.” Sherlock flinches when John handles his hair a bit roughly. “Apparently, they only made one. It's a bit under three meters long, and sometime between Thursday at midnight and Friday when whats-his-face got up to do some last-minute prep, the thing was stolen.”

Sherlock's hair is a frightful mess. Pins are sticking out all over his head, and his curls are going every which way. Grimacing, John asks, “Where are they holding the convention, and where is your wig?”

“The Excel Center,” Sherlock reaches down under his bed and pulls out a brown shipping package that contains, among other things, a black wig in a plastic bag, “and right here.”

John grabs the wig and sets the package on the ground by his feet. He unwraps it and places it on his friend's head, but the pins and bunches up curls make the wig look lumpy and wrong. Part of him wants to try and snap a picture on his mobile before Sherlock notices how ridiculous he looks, but the other part of him knows Sherlock is fully capable of destroying John's phone to preserve his own dignity. Instead, he snorts a bit and then sticks a few more pins in, trying to get the wig to sit at the proper angle.

“I'm assuming that the cameras at the center didn't pick anything up,” says John, who fights back a snort as the wig goes even more crooked.

“Five minutes of tape erased. CCTV in the area showed nothing suspicious.”

Finally, the wig rights itself. It does not look significantly better; Sherlock is not meant for bowl cuts. “Any idea who did it?” He steps away. “You're done, by the way.”

Sherlock ignores his question and instead traipses back into the bathroom. This time, he leaves the door open. John watches him frown deeply at his reflection. “Pass me the parcel, will you?”

John grabs the package from the floor and walks to the doorway of the bathroom. He hovers in the frame, leaning in to place parcel on the counter. Sherlock shifts through packing materials until he finds what he's looking for: pointy prosthetic ears.

It's too much. John bursts out laughing. “We have to take a picture of this.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock goes about placing the fake ears over his real ones. They have adhesive on the inside so that they stick to his skin, which leads to much peeling and replacing as Sherlock tries to get the angle right. They are also about five shades darker than Sherlock's natural complexion, which creates a pretty hilarious picture. 

For the finishing touch, Sherlock produces a black makeup pencil from his pocket (“Mummy's,” he says in response to the face John makes), which he uses to draw a more angular eyebrow. John tries valiantly, but he can't help it; he bursts into another round of laughter.

“Stop giggling,” Sherlock says, his tone sour but his mouth twitching, “You can't giggle now. There's been a crime.”

“Sorry, sorry...” John does not sound especially sorry. He gathers himself and watches as Sherlock put the finishing touches on his eyebrows. “Anyway, if this is some priceless artifact from the original series, shouldn't Scotland Yard be taking care of this?”

Sherlock groans. “They are, officially, but my client is apparently smarter than his taste in telly would suggest because he realized they were idiots sometime on Friday and contacted me about my ad that evening. I was a bit younger than expected, I think. I lied and said I was 19 when he asked. He must be desperate, though, because he offered to double my fee if I figure this out.”

He turns and thrusts his mobile into John's hands. The picture of Spock is still on the screen. John shrugs. “Not bad for last minute.” As he hands the phone back to Sherlock, he asks, as casually as he can muster, “So, did you work on the case all weekend?”

Too casual. Sherlock looks up abruptly, narrows his eyes. “Yes. And?”

Well, now John feels like an idiot. He swallows and tries to shrug it off. “Just curious, I guess. I didn't,” he pauses, flushes, “I didn't hear from you. And I thought I would. Hear from you, I mean.”

Sherlock fiddles with the mobile in his hands. “I meant to text you.”

“Yeah,” John says, “I know.”

The thing is: he _does_ know. This is Sherlock's way, and there is no changing it. There will always be mysteries and puzzles and John will always come second to them. Sherlock himself warned John about all of this only a few days ago. He keeps telling himself that one day, he won't mind it as much.

“Is that why you were angry at me this morning?” Sherlock asks, his voice quiet. He shoves his mobile into his back pocket.

“Sort of,” John replies, “but not really. It wasn't you. Or, at least, it wasn't completely you. Harry is insane and decided to express said insanity to my coat. She utterly destroyed it. I didn't realize until it was time to leave for school. I was just aggravated, and I took it out on you. Sorry.”

Sherlock nods and then starts to move past John back into his room, only to pause so that they are in the doorway together. He swallows and frowns.

John touches his elbow. “Sherlock?”

Suddenly, Sherlock presses John back against the door frame and descends upon him, mouth hard against his own. John is so surprised that it takes him a moment to comprehend that Sherlock is kissing him— _Sherlock Holmes is kissing him_. His eyes fall closed as he savors the moment.

Then John opens his mouth.

Sherlock draws back, eyes wide. “You...”

John's stomach turns to stone and drops straight to his feet. “Was that...? I mean, we don't have to, if you don't--”

Cutting him off, Sherlock surges forward and kisses him again with a bit too much force. He pulls away but continues to hang in John's space, panting against his cheek. “I didn't tell you about the job on Friday because I knew if I saw you, I'd be too preoccupied to focus.”

In a pleasant, rollercoaster sort of way, John's stomach ascends back to its usual position and turns from rock to jelly. “Then why invite me over now?”

“You were upset,” Sherlock answers, pressing his lips to John's temple before standing up straight. His face is flushed and he's smudged one of his eyebrows. “Also, I found that even without you around, you still managed to distract me.”

John reaches up and runs his thumb across the wandering black makeup until Sherlock's fake brow goes back to its intended shape. “So, you figured if I was going to be a nuisance either way, I may as well come along?”

“Well, that,” Sherlock smiles faintly as he disentangles himself from John's touch, “and I've solved the case.”

–

In the car on the way to the convention center, Sherlock sits close, his right side pressed against John's left. John puts his hand on Sherlock's knee. He does not miss the way it makes the other boy smile.

“You planning to tell me how you solved it?” John asks.

Sherlock grins at him. “All in good time, my dear Watson.”

–

When they arrive at the Excel Center, there is a large crowd hanging outside the doors. Very few of the people are in street clothes; most are decked out in the most elaborate costumes John has ever seen. He is staring in fascination at some strange ridges that a woman has somehow seamlessly applied to her neck when Sherlock grabs his arm and drags him to the front door.

“Come on,” he says, “Daniel is going to let us in since we don't have tickets.”

“I thought his name was David?”

“It's something like that.”

A pudgy man in a yellow sweater similar to John's (only much nicer, John notices), comes out the front door. He's brandishing a clipboard and looks harried and overwrought; even John could have made the deduction that this man is the event organizer.

“Sherlock!” David-or-Daniel-or-Dennis says, waving them over. John follows behind Sherlock, and the event planner motions his clipboard in his direction. “Who's this, then?”

“John,” Sherlock replies, “a colleague of mine. He'll be helping me tonight.”

The man sticks out his hand to John. “Carl McIntire, pleasure.”

John glares at Sherlock. “Nice to meet you, Carl.”

“Now, I won't be including him in the fee, will I?” When Sherlock shakes his head no, Carl nods and leads them all into the Excel Center.

Even though John had seen the costumes outside, he's unprepared for everything happening inside the convention. Everyone is dressed in their Star Trek finest, and there booths boasting gadgets based on those featured in the show as far as the eye can see. At the far end of the room, there is a giant empty display case—presumably, the intended showplace for the spaceship. It is all so much and so overwhelming that it takes John a good thirty seconds to realize that Carl's been spouting a veritable monologue.

“—and it's the same security team as Thursday night, you know, plus a few people who weren't there before, but I can't see why you need to trifle with them. The detectives have interviewed everyone, anyway, and listen, I just—are you sure you can find the Enterprise because you are pretty young and—”

Sherlock sighs. “Look, Donald—”

“Carl.”

“Whatever. I need to speak to Schaeffer, Miller, and Prince. Kindly point me in their direction. Should have this cleared up for you within the hour.”

Baffled, Carl motions in three different directions: the doors where they just entered, the doors at the opposite end of the center, and a line that has formed in front of a person who John assumes is some castmember.

Sherlock turns and surveys the three people stationed in the places. By the front doors is a petite uniformed woman checking bags.

“It's not likely her,” he says, after a moment. “She's a security guard, so she's strong, but she's also very short. The model is quite large, probably fairly heavy. No doubt she would be capable of lifting it with a partner, but this operation happened quickly, very quickly, as there's only a few minutes of video missing from the Center's cameras. Her size would have been a hindrance, especially when maneuvering down to the basement.”

“The basement?” Carl echoes.

“That is, indeed, what I said,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. He grabs John's shoulder and points him toward the man watching over the line. “Go talk to him. I believe he's Miller. Casually ask him about his brother and his friends.”

John digs in his heels. “How on earth will I do that? And how do you know he has a brother?”

"I don't," Sherlock gives him a push. “I have faith in your abilities. Now go. I'll talk to Prince.”

With that, Sherlock swans off, leaving Carl and John gaping in his wake. His wig is a little crooked again, which gives John a terrible sense of satisfaction.

“Right,” he says to himself, and heads off to speak to the security guard.

He approaches the line and bypasses it, edging up to Miller. “Um, hello.”

Miller gives him a sharp look. He is tall and wiry, with glasses perched on the end of his rather beaky nose. John doesn't know which details Sherlock needs and which he doesn't, so he also takes note of the man's red hair, his poor posture, and his clean uniform.

“Yes?” Miller asks, frowning.

“Uh, yes. I was wondering if,” John stammers over his words. Sherlock should have better prepared him for espionage, “you know where the back of the queue is.”

The look Miller gives him clearly means the man thinks John is insane. He points to what is (obviously, John inwardly groans) the end of the queue, five feet to their left.

“Oh, brilliant!” John says. He swallows thickly. “Uh, what about you? Big Trekkie, eh? Have you got any autographs yet?”

The security guard still seems to think John is crazy, but he relaxes a little bit as that question is substantially more normal. “Been on duty most of the con, but I did manage to nab William Shatner's autograph yesterday. Real treat, that. The original series is my favorite. Yours, too?” He motions to John's costume.

“Yes,” John says, hoping the man asks him absolutely nothing more about what is supposed to be his favorite television program. “What about your, um, family? Friends? Did they get to come for free, since you're working this event?”

“Just me and Mum, and she doesn't care. My girlfriend Sarah was going to come, but she got that 'flu that's been going around. I told her to come along anyway, but she can barely even move from the couch,” Miller shrugs. “Maybe next year.”

“That's too bad. Well, thanks for chatting.”

John turns on his heel and walks away quickly, past the end of the queue and in the direction he last saw Sherlock—

—who, at that moment, lets out a mighty cry as the third security guard punches him in the nose and takes off running out the door.

Without pausing, John breaks into a sprint. Everyone paused when they heard Sherlock yell, and John begins to push them out of his way. He can hear someone running behind him, and he glances over his shoulder; Miller, the security guard, is on his tail.

Carl makes it to Sherlock first and presses a handkerchief against the boy's bleeding nose. As John approaches, Sherlock yells, “He'll go down the nearest flight of steps and head for the catering truck. Go grab him!”

Miller edges ahead of John, and they both burst through the door. They can hear the slap of Prince's shoes on the steps as he descends, and the pair of them follow the sound until they reach the parking garage beneath the center. There's the roar of an engine starting, and then a large catering truck tears out of a spot. Miller fumbles with his radio, trying to read off the numbers on the license plate, while John heads straight for the exit.

He makes it there before the van, which barrels toward him. _It'll stop_ , he tells himself, _it'll stop Prince has to stop he isn't a murderer just a thief it'll stop he'll stop oh God please stop_ —

Prince slams on the brakes. They squeal and the area fills with the smell of burning rubber as the van turns sideways to compensate for the sudden stop. It halts a foot from where John is standing. Prince begins to cry at the steering wheel as Miller runs up, cursing wildly at John and ordering backup on his radio.

“I think I need to lie down,” John says, just before he faints.

–

When he comes to, he is horizontal and his head is on something soft and warm. It's nice. He does not want to move. Sherlock is speaking, somewhere above him. Sounds like deductions. Solved the case, then. That's good. He will have to ask Sherlock all about it when he doesn't want to sleep so much.

“--and it was obvious that the model couldn't have been removed from the building in the five minute time gap on the center's cameras, so it had to placed in something large that no one would have suspected. Something mobile, that the perpetrator could use to get away. What kind of large trucks show up during a convention of this size? Catering—and a lot of it, as it not only covers many of the participants but also the many stars who are present. I merely asked what Prince's brother did for a living and...” Sherlock's voice trails off, and John thinks that's rather nice of him, really, as he's keeping John awake. “John. John! Are you conscious?”

John groans. “Only because you won't shut up.”

Someone else laughs and John blinks, wincing at the light. Sherlock is directly above him. He's lost his wig and half of his bobby pins; his hair looks like something a bird makes. The things they live in. What are those things called again?

“Where do birds live? I can't remember the word,” he asks.

Sherlock frowns. “I think you're concussed.”

“Sounds about right,” John agrees, then shuts his eyes. The second they close, Sherlock slaps his cheek. “Oi! What's this?”

“If you're concussed, you can't sleep. Idiot.”

With a put upon sigh, he looks up at Sherlock. Something clicks in his head. “Am I in your lap?”

Again, someone out of John's line of sight laughs. He shifts a bit and sees—David? Dennis? No, Carl!—standing next to Miller, who has Prince restrained. Prince is still sobbing, which seems strange to John, as he's not the one who just nearly got run over by a van containing a spaceship.

Sherlock smiles a bit at John. “Is that alright?”

“You're comfy,” declares John. This concussion is making him very honest. He's not sure he likes it, especially since Carl keeps giggling.

“An ambulance will be here soon. I've already called your mum, she's going to meet you at hospital,” Sherlock runs a delicate hand across John's hair. “She left you six messages and twenty-seven texts, by the way. Apparently, you two were supposed to go shopping for coats today. She had no idea where you were. I think she's rather cross with you.”

John grimaces. “Bugger.”


	8. Shopping

“I have no idea why I allowed you to come along,” John complains as Sherlock plucks yet another coat from his hands. He _likes_ that coat. The leather is brown and soft, and it's not too long like practically every other coat here. He tries to get it back, but Sherlock hangs it up and gives him a look that promises he will regret it if he retrieves it from the rack.

“Like you could have stopped me,” is all Sherlock replies as he selects yet another pea coat and holds it up against John's torso. He makes a disappointed humming sound and replaces it, moving down the aisle. “Besides, you wanted me to come.”

Which is true, of course, but Sherlock's not meant to know that! John sighs. He should know better than to think it possible to hide anything from his—friend? Boyfriend? Something in between the two?

They haven't really discussed it, the change in their relationship. John wants to, but he also doesn't. It would be nice, he thinks, to know exactly what's going on between them. To have definition, parameters. At the same time, it's also rather nice not to have that—no labels, just letting things progress naturally.

And hell—whatever is happening is happening quickly. Two weeks ago, John was convinced that Sherlock would never feel anything more than friendship toward him. Now, he knows exactly what Sherlock's lips feel like against his own. John even got a concussion for him!

The past few days have been terrible. Mrs. Watson had been terribly upset when she arrived at hospital on Monday. She'd insisted he stay home from school for two days, at least.

“You are _concussed_ ,” she told him, shaking her head. “You are not going to school until I am convinced you're alright. And no having anyone over, either!”

The exile ends tomorrow, thankfully. He probably could have returned to school today, but his mum said it was better to be safe than sorry. She appeared to be feeling more lenient, however, as partway through the day she announced that they'd finally be going on their previously promised shopping trip that evening so that he could get a new coat. John knew he was getting desperate if a trip to House of Fraser was preferable to being stuck inside for another minute—especially since his mum had told him that Harry was coming along.

“Can I bring Sherlock?” he'd asked, hoping he sounded casual.

“What for?”

“He has good taste in coats.”

His mum had rolled her eyes but told him he could invite the other boy along.

An hour after school ended, Sherlock was at their door and the four of them were on their way to the department store.

Now, John regrets his decision to invite Sherlock. Sure, they've been texting each other non-stop and John has spent the past two days counting down until he'd see Sherlock again, but now that they're together, he remembers what an annoying git Sherlock is about clothes. He's outright rejected every single coat John has so much as glanced at.

John grabs the brown jacket up again, just to be contrary.

“This one!” Sherlock declares, thrusting a black coat into John's arms. He smirks. “It's perfect for your height.”

John glares and takes a step toward Sherlock, pushing lightly at his chest. He is only trying to be funny, but as soon as he touches Sherlock, his thoughts turn toward a drastically different path. He swallows, trails a finger down Sherlock's front. “Are you trying to imply something?”

Sherlock catches his hand as it descends and holds it lightly in his own. He takes a step closer and then leans in to whisper, “No, I'm saying it outright. You, John Watson, are short.”

When he looks up, Sherlock is right there. All John would have to do to close the gap between them is to go up on his toes and—

A gasp. “Are you two homosexuals?”

John abruptly drops onto his heels and takes a step back. As he turns, he sees Harry at the end of the aisle. Her ponytail is drooping and her jumper is rucked up, displaying the bottom edge of her pink My Little Pony shirt. She looks as though she's been crawling through the circular racks—again. He'd thought she'd outgrown that particular habit.

“What did you say?” John asks, putting another foot of distance between him and Sherlock.

“Suzy from school told me that her brother likes to kiss boys and that her parents kicked him out because he is a ho-mo-sex-u-al,” Harry pronounces the word very precisely, as if she's just learned it and is very keen to get it right. “That means 'people who kiss boys.'”

Sherlock frowns. “That's not what it means.”

John turns to give him an incredulous look, which Sherlock chooses to ignore.

Harry, for her part, is ignorant of the context of that exchange. She rocks back and forth on her feet. “Yes, it is. Suzy told me. People who kiss boys are homosexuals,” she lifts her chin proudly, “I bet _I'll_ be a homosexual when I grow up.”

“Oh God,” John closes his eyes. He shoves the brown coat at Sherlock, who takes it begrudgingly, and then he moves until he is in front of Harry. He drops to his knees so that they are eye level. “That is not what that word means, Harry. It means—well, can we talk about this at home?”

“No,” she pouts, “now.”

“It's when boys like other boys and girls like other girls. _Like_ them like them. As in more than just friends. Do you understand?” Harry nods tentatively. “And it's fine. There's nothing wrong with it. But it's not a word you should use unless you understand it because you could hurt someone else's feelings, alright?”

There's pressure on his shoulder; Sherlock is by his side, left arm laden with coats, right hand touching John. John glances up at his—well, his friend-boyfriend-person—and then remembers his mother, who is somewhere in the women's department and hopefully witnessing none of this conversation. He does not want his mum to realize that her son is dating a boy while shopping for coats. It's just not right.

“Look, Harry, I need you to promise me you will not tell Mum about this.”

Harry tilts her head to the side, frowns. “If there's nothing wrong with it, then why can't I tell?”

Beside him, Sherlock says, “I think John wants to tell your mum himself.”

“So it's a _secret_ ,” Harry grins, “Oh, I love secrets! What will you give me to keep it?”

John's jaw drops. “What?”

“Maisie from class gave me five pieces of gum to not tell Aaron that she thinks he is cute. I chewed them all at once. It was great fun! I gave her my pudding at lunch so that she wouldn't tell--” at that, Harry stops speaking abruptly. Her eyes narrow as she looks between Sherlock and John. “Nevermind.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Five quid?”

John stands abruptly and elbows Sherlock in the ribs. “What? No! We are not bribing my baby sister. Harry, you're going to keep this secret because it's the right thing to do.”

“I am not a baby.”

“You're acting like one!”

Sherlock leans in a bit between the two of them. “And you are both making a scene.”

That bit of information does not deter Harry in the least. She goes a bit red in the face and crosses her arms. “Read me the next three chapters of Harry Potter tonight or I'm telling Mum!”

“You are the most annoying little--”

“What's she done now?” comes a voice from behind Harry.

Mrs. Watson strolls up, eyes down as she roots through her purse. Harry bolts to her, clinging to her round the middle. For her part, Mrs. Watson takes little notice, muttering to herself about her checkbook.

“John is a homosexual!” Harry cries, ducking behind Mrs. Watson when John glares at her.

At her daughter's declaration, Mrs. Watson looks up from her purse and stares at the two boys. There's nothing untoward between them; they aren't standing too close, they aren't touching. The only thing that gives them away is John's guilty expression and the way he looks like he may murder his little sister as soon as they are alone. As much as he wishes he could school his features to cool blankness like Sherlock, John is not built that way. He turns beet red.

There's a long moment of silence, and then his mother shrugs and shifts her focus back to rifling through her bag. “What have I told you about tattling, Harriet Watson?”

Harry sticks out her bottom lip. “That I'm not to do it.”

“Exactly. You've gone and spilt John's big secret in the middle of House of Fraser, which I'm sure he and Sherlock do not appreciate.” She sends the boys a brief smile and ignores their gaping in favor of turning back to Harry. “Do you remember what happens to little tattletales?”

Harry's mouth drops open in horror. She stamps her foot. “But Mum!”

“That didn't sound like an answer, Harriet Margaret.”

At the use of her middle name, Harry recoils. She and John both know: when Mum uses their middle name, they're in trouble. She huffs and crosses her arms. “Tattletales don't get dessert.”

“Correct. Now, let's head to the queue, and you and I will have a discussion when we get home.” She turns to the boys and gives them a long look. Then, she plucks the black coat from Sherlock's grasp, nodding in approval. “Glad you brought him along, John. He does have better taste than you. Put that awful brown one back, would you, Sherlock?”

Ignoring the affronted look John gives her, Mrs. Watson leans over and pecks her son on the forehead. She pretends not to see him wipe at his face. “Congratulations, by the way.”

At that, Mrs. Watson turns and hastens after Harry, who has stopped in front of a perfume display and is now coating herself liberally in every tester scent imaginable. John looks over at Sherlock, wide-eyed. “That was surprisingly easy.”

“It was. If it makes you feel better,” Sherlock replies, “I doubt my parents will handle it quite so well.”

“Doesn't, really.”

A sigh. “I know.”

John holds out his hand. They're out now, anyway. Might as well do what he's been dying to do since Sherlock showed up at his door to go coat shopping.

Sherlock grins and and slips his hand into John's. Together, they head toward the queue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to [sureaintmebabe](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for looking over this for me and for writing hilarious commentary on my rough draft.
> 
> Check out [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com) for more info about me writing my way through the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Or if you just want to be internet-friends. :)


	9. Hanging out with friends

The bass pounds in John's skull, making him wince. Who the hell decided that the music needed to be ear-shatteringly loud? Surely, head-achingly loud would have been sufficient.

Sarah leans in, her lips nearly pressed to his ear as she shouts to him that she hasn't seen him in awhile. Even though she is screaming, he can barely make out her voice amid the chaos of the party. She's right, though; they haven't hung out since their break up at the beginning of the year. She'd told him he was spending too much time with Sherlock and not enough with her, and then she'd dumped him.

It had been the end of John's first real relationship, and he'd taken it poorly. Sherlock claimed that the two weeks directly following had been the most boring fortnight of all time, since he'd had to deal not only with John moping, but also with the tedium of day-to-day life.

Now that some time has passed, it's nice to see Sarah. She looks great, her brown hair piled atop her head and her skirt barely on the right side of being publicly acceptable. Her gold eyeshadow has smudged a bit past her eye and catches the light. In a way, it's comforting to still be attracted to this girl; John has (mostly) avoided the dreaded sexuality crisis, but he still has his moments.

Not that he wants Sarah. He doesn't. At least, not really. He wants Sherlock, and he wants him pretty much all the time. As soon as they walked in the door, however, the other boy had disappeared. John had turned to drop off his five quid for the beer (graciously supplied by Molly's older sister) and grab a few bottles for him and Sherlock. He'd been gone all of twenty seconds, and in that time, Sherlock had managed to wander off. After a fruitless hour of searching, John had decided to enjoy the party solo.

Well, as much as he could, anyway.

He'd been standing by the front door, looking like an idiot and still holding two beers, when Sarah had walked in with Sally. They'd struck up a conversation—or had tried to, despite the music doing its very best to make it impossible for people to speak.

“Is Sherlock here?” Sarah yells into his ear.

Polishing off his beer, John shrugs. “Somewhere. We came together, but he went off as soon as we arrived, and I haven't been able to find him.”

Even though he is fairly certain she's only been able to catch every other word, Sarah nods and quirks an eyebrow. “You came here together, huh?”

“Shut up,” he laughs.

“Oh, Molly's over there! I'm going to go say hello. Nice chatting!”

He watches Sarah push her way through the crowd and goes to take a swig from his bottle only to remember that he drank it dry. He sets the empty on the table in the front hall (and inwardly apologizes to Molly and her sister, who will no doubt have to clean it up tomorrow) and heads to the kitchen. There are several cases of beer going warm on the counter, but this is hardly John's first time at one of Molly's blow outs. Her sister, Melody, always hides the good beer on the bottom left shelf.

He grabs himself one and pops off the top using the kitchen counter. For one second, he considers looking for the bin, but a glance around him tells him reveals that to seek it out would be an exercise in futility. Instead, he tosses it to the ground.

The song ends, and there is blessed silence for all of ten seconds as whoever is controlling the iPod decides what to put on next.

In those few, precious moments, John hears something strange: Sherlock. Laughing.

It came from somewhere on his right, he thinks, so John moves through the adjacent dining room (where Sally and Anderson are currently in the corner, joined at the mouth) and out into the sitting room. There are a bunch of people there—a group playing a drinking game in the corner, a bunch of guys from rugby trying (and failing) to flirt with girls John is pretty sure attend the same university as Melody.

And then, there he is: Sherlock Holmes, sitting cross-legged on the floor sharing a spliff with Sebastian Wilkes.

John does not like Sebastian for several reasons, including but not limited to: his phony smile, his endless amounts of money, how proud he is of his endless amounts of money, his terrible cologne that he seems to bathe in, and most importantly—the fact that he is a horrid person. He once told John he would “make it worth his while” if John wrote his lit paper for him. 

Arrogant little prick.

Plus, there is the small fact that, prior to this year, Sherlock was almost always in Sebastian's company.

That's changed, of course. Sherlock told John that he and Sebastian had some sort of falling out over the summer hols. He has refused to explain past that, and John's never pushed to hear more. He's had friendships end before, and he knows that it's not a fun topic of conversation.

Whatever happened between them has apparently been resolved, however, as Sherlock passes the joint back to Sebastian. He is talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and Sebastian throws his head back and laughs.

Before he can tell his feet that it is a terrible idea, John stalks forward.

“Well, if it isn't Johnny Watson, the arsehole who refused to help me with my Lit assignment!” Sebastian takes a hit, holding the smoke in his lungs before coughing out a chuckle. “Offer still stands, you know.”

John smiles, tight and brittle. “So does my answer, unfortunately.”

He looks down at Sherlock, who is curled up on the floor, looking at him with wide, glassy eyes and a dopey smile. He would almost look cute if John weren't so furious.

“I'm going to head out,” John says, ignoring Sebastian. “Just wanted to let you know. Have a good night, okay?”

Sherlock scrambles to his feet. “No, no! I'll come, too! We can stop and get kebabs. I am _starving_.”

Well, John thinks, that's one way to get him to eat. “Whatever. See you, Sebastian.”

Wilkes nods and stubs the spliff out on the wall behind him. John resists the urge to kill him and instead walks away, Sherlock trailing behind him.

On the way to the door, John sees Molly. He catches her sleeve and shouts in her ear that Sebastian burned her wall. She runs off to give him a good talking to and kick him out of her party, and John feels a bit better.

–

They're eating doner kebab when Sherlock says, “You're mad at me. For getting high.”

It seems silly to deny it. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“I haven't done it in awhile. Feels good. Wearing off a bit, though.” The way he takes a big bite and proceeds to talk with his mouth full belies that statement. “You're also mad because I left you alone.”

“How can you still deduce in this state?”

“I can't _not_ deduce. It's impossible.”

There's a long silence. John lost interest in his late night meal right after he began it, so he just picks at it with his fork. He rests his head on his hand and heaves a sigh.

“Sebastian is...” Sherlock trails off.

“Terrible?”

Sherlock laughs. “Well, yes. That's true, I know. I knew it then, too. But, for a long time, I thought he was the only person who would possibly befriend me. I mean, you know how I am.”

John frowns. “You're brilliant.”

“I thought he was my one and only friend, but then he got angry with me during the hols because...” Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and lets it out in a gust. “Well, it doesn't matter. And then I met you, and I realized he and I were never really friends, anyway, because our friendship was nothing like what you and I have now, so I guess what I'm trying to say is: good on you, John Watson.”

Somewhere in that story is a rather sweet sentiment, John suspects. “Why'd you talk to him tonight, then?”

A smirk. “He has the most magnificent spliff.”

John rolls his eyes. “I can't believe that you of all people—”

“What? Enjoy the occasional high? Who doesn't?” There is a long awkward pause as Sherlock watches John shift in his seat. “Oh my God, you've never smoked, have you?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“Oh, God. This is great. Darling little John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock dodges when John leans across the table and tries to shove a hand over his mouth, “is as pure as the driven snow.”

John leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, glaring. “Do you plan to do it all the time?”

“Get high?” Sherlock scoffs. “Of course not. Have you heard me blathering on for the past twenty minutes? Ford God's sake, I just told you you're the only friend I have ever had, and I think we can both agree I'd have never said it if I weren't under the influence of illegal substances. Who knows what I would do or say if I planned to make this a habit?”

“I don't like it,” John says.

Sherlock finishes off his last bite. “I'm aware. And that is why I won't do it. It upsets you.”

Beneath the table John nudges Sherlock's foot with his own. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nudges back. “You're welcome. Now, can I sleep at yours? Mycroft finally got his fat arse over to the house, and I don't have anything to leverage against this if he sees me in my current condition.”

“Yeah, it's fine. You can stay on the couch.” John gets up and throws away their trash. As they head back out onto the street, he can't help himself. The words spill from his mouth. “Drugs are bad, you know.”

Oh God. He sounds like a bloody Public Service Announcement.

Surprisingly, Sherlock does not make fun of him. Instead, he sighs deeply. “Yes,” he says, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really tough to write, and I'm not pleased with it. I may go back and do a major rewrite when this month is over, but at this point, I am focusing on the challenge rather than on writing a perfect piece of literary genius. That's why editing exists, right?
> 
> Many thanks to all of you who have left kudos, subscribed, bookmarked, commented, and followed [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)! There was a big surge yesterday, which made me feel rather special. Haha. :)


	10. With animal ears

John is making eggs for Sherlock the next morning when his mum rushes in, yanking her hair into a ponytail. “John, I need you to watch Harry for a few hours.”

“But Mum!”

He had had his whole day planned, and it had involved rather a lot of snogging Sherlock.

Mrs. Watson sighs and pats his cheek. “Your Aunt Susan is in hospital,” she holds up a hand when John makes to ask questions, “She was in a car accident. She'll be fine—broken arm, I think, and they need to do a few scans. There were some...legal issues. She called your dad.”

'Legal issues' is code for 'Aunt Sue was drunk at 9 AM and decided to take a drive.' It's sad; the last time he actually saw his aunt in person, John was seven. She showed up to the extended family's Christmas dinner completely pissed and vomited on the potatoes. Since then, the only proof he has had of Susan's continued existence are the birthday cards she sends him once a year, addressed in unsteady writing.

“Did she hurt anyone?” John asks, dropping the spatula.

His mum bites her lip. “I don't think so. She wasn't very clear, but then she never really is.” Mrs. Waston sighs. “You know, it's awful, but I hardly even feel bad for her anymore. I wasn't even surprised when she called, let alone upset. I know it's a disease and that she's ill, but she's just refused treatment for so long...”

Mr. Watson pops his head into the kitchen, “Found my keys. Ready to go?” As his wife nods, he shifts his gaze to his son. “Alright looking after Harry?”

“Yes, sir,” John says. His dad gives him a brief smile and then disappears out of the room.

“Sherlock can help you, if he wants.” Mrs. Watson tells him as she backs away, “And let him know that he can stay in your room next time. You two don't need to tiptoe around us.”

John blushes and turns back to the eggs just in time to save them from being overdone. “Mum!”

He hears her laugh from the door to the kitchen. “What? I have realistic expectations of teenage sexuality. I remember when your father and I started dating--”

“Oh my God, _stop talking_.”

Her footsteps echo down the hall to the front door, and John heaves a sigh of relief. Then he hears her call back, “Well, at least you can't get him pregnant!”

The door closes behind her.

John shoves the eggs onto a plate, grabs the toast from the toaster, and then pauses, allowing himself to feel the full measure of his mortification, knowing that Sherlock most definitely heard everything his mother just said. When the moment ends, he steps out into the living room, flipping the other boy the two fingered salute as John sees him laughing on the couch.

Even though he doesn't deserve it because he is an arse, John gives Sherlock the breakfast. “Eat, you skinny bastard.”

Instead of arguing, Sherlock grabs the fork and begins to tuck in. He scoots over so that there is room for both of them on the couch. “So, your aunt is an alcoholic?” he asks, as if that is a normal opening to a conversation.

“So they tell me.”

“You haven't seen her since you were very young. Six? No, seven. Some holiday, likely Christmas. Harry has never met her, then. Your parents don't like her much, have tried to raise you outside of her influence.”

John drops his head onto Sherlock's shoulder. “Correct, as usual.”

“I know.”

“Humble, as usual.”

A rumbling laugh. “I know.”

There is a loud bang from down the hall, and then a series of stomps that announce that Harry is awake and ready to make John's morning hectic. She drags herself into the living room and makes her way over to the couch, wedging herself between the two boys.

“Mum woke me up and told me you were watching me today,” she says, stealing a piece of toast from Sherlock's plate, and taking a large bite,“and I want to play dress up.”

John rolls his eyes. “Harry, you just got up. Don't you want some breakfast first, or--”

“Nope!” She says, popping the 'p' for emphasis. “Mrs. Hudson from next door dropped off a bunch of her granddaughter's old stuff yesterday, and I want to play.”

“Why can't you just watch telly like a normal kid?”

Sherlock foists off his last piece of toast on the girl and then discards the plate on the coffee table ahead of himself. “If we are playing dress up,” he ignores the astonished look John sends his direction, “I want to be the costume judge.”

Both Watsons stare at him and simultaneously say, “What?”

“The costume judge. Obviously, if there are two people dressing up, then the third has to decide whose costume is the best. It's the rules.”

John isn't sure what it is: maybe it's his height, or how deep his voice is, or just the absolute confidence in his carriage, but Harry eats up everything Sherlock says as the gospel truth. It doesn't matter that she has never once in her life needed someone to judge her ability to dress up; now that the idea has been introduced into her head, she won't rest until it happens.

That clever bastard. John glares at the other boy, who returns the look with a smarmy little smirk.

“Well, of course we need a judge! It's a competition. Come on, Johnny,” she takes her brother by the hand and pulls until he stands up, “everything is in my room!”

She bounds down the hall, John trailing behind her and sending mutinous glares over his shoulder.

–

Twenty minutes later, Harry runs back into the living room. She's wearing an old peach-coloured bridesmaid dress, which hangs off her shoulders so much that John insisted she had to keep her pajama top on under it. It drags behind her like a mighty train. She has accessorized with a bright blue hand bag and a long pearl necklace, looped several times. A broken plastic tiara is perched atop her hair, still a bedraggled mess from sleep.

“You look very beautiful. Are you a queen?” Sherlock asks.

Harry scowls. “Of course not! I'm a princess.”

“Oh, yes. I see how much that is much better,” Sherlock replies, barely tamping down his urge to roll his eyes. “And is John a knight, or something?” He peeks down the hall. “Is he coming out?”

“Oh no,” Harry replies, giving him a conniving little grin, “I found the perfect thing for him.”

Sherlock calls out, “John?”

From behind Harry's closed bedroom door, John shouts, “Piss off!”

“Johnny! If you don't get out here, I will tell Mum about that magazine I found hidden under your bed!”

The door flings open and John steps into the hall. Apparently, this humiliation is less of a burden than having another conversation with his mother about sex. He proceeds down the hall at the slowest pace he can manage, finally emerging in the doorway...

...wearing kitty ears and his regular pyjamas.

Instantly, Sherlock lunges for his phone, discarded on the coffee table last night before he passed out on the sofa.

“Don't you dare!” John vaults across the room, fairly hopping over a chair (and his little sister) in an attempt to reach the mobile before his friend. Harry giggles madly in the background as the pair of them wrestle over the hunk of plastic, Sherlock gaining the upper hand long enough to snap one photo of John, face flushed with exertion, with kitty ears atop his head.

“Mum will want a copy of that,” Harry declares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Harry is pretty much me at 8 years old. PITY MY OLDER SISTER.
> 
> Thanks to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for her help!
> 
> If you want to be tumblr friends, click [here](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)!


	11. Wearing kigurumis

John is sitting on the couch with Harry, who is, for once, mercifully still. She's even being sort of cute, curled up with her head in his lap. If she were this quiet and well-behaved all the time, he'd probably be nicer to her (well, sometimes). He runs a hand over her head and she swats him away, eyes fixed on screen, where Marlin and Dory swim frantically through a crowd of jellyfish.

Sherlock left hours ago, after receiving a rather terse text from his brother. John's only met Mycroft once, just after he and Sherlock became friends at the beginning of the year. Mycroft had picked him up in an expensive black car after rugby practice and had driven him home, asking all these strangely invasive questions about Sherlock, about him, about their relationship. For a few minutes, John had felt like he was living a bad spy movie.

John hadn't told him anything, of course. He wouldn't have done that to Sherlock, not even when he barely knew the boy. He supposes that should have told him something about the nature of his feelings. In reality, he didn't come to realize just how deeply he cared for Sherlock for another two months afterward.

Since that meeting, Mycroft has been more shadow than man. Sherlock claims that his brother is practically the British Government, which sounds like the typical Sherlockian over exaggeration—except for sometimes when he's alone, John notices that the CCTV cameras follow him down the street.

He is not eager to meet Sherlock's older brother again.

The text had to have been serious, as Sherlock had gone rigid when he saw it. Plus, he hadn't even kissed John goodbye. John had managed to entertain Harry on his own for a little while, but apparently dressing up was no longer fun without an official judge, so they'd ended up watching _Finding Nemo_ for the thousandth time.

His parents had stumbled in the door twenty minutes ago, faces drawn. When he'd asked after Aunt Sue, they both shook their heads. His mum had mentioned that she was for a shower and walked away, while Mr. Watson had grabbed his laptop from the coffee table and settled into the chair in the living room.

He's been there for a few minutes, watching _Finding Nemo_ from the corner of his eye as he sorts through his email. He is quiet—so much so that, when he does speak, John jumps a foot, having almost forgotten his dad was in the room.

“John,” says Mr. Watson, staring at his computer screen with a mixture of confusion and amusement, “that friend of yours—what is it, Sherlock?”

His mum has known about him and Sherlock for a few days, but John still hasn't talked to his dad. Mostly, he hoped that his mum would do it for him. Immature of him, maybe, but discussing relationships and sex with his parents is hard, and he wants to have as few conversations about those things as possible. He feels pretty justified in his cowardice in this instance.

From the way Mr. Watson is looking at him—all raised eyebrows—it seems Mum did, indeed, fill him in. 

“What about him?” John asks, going for casual and falling far short of his goal.

“Is his email thescienceofdeduction@yahoo.co.uk?”

That's the email address he and Sherlock created for the Craigslist post. John frowns in confusion. “One of them, yeah. How do you know that?”

The corner of his dad's mouth twitches as he flips his laptop around. On it is a giant picture of John wearing kitty ears.

John goes pale. “I'm going to murder him.”

“Email says that Harry informed him that we'd like a copy.” Laughter is thick in Mr. Watson's voice as he calls out, “Carol, come quick! Oh, your mum needs to see this. We'll print it out and hang it on the fridge.”

His mum wanders into the room, dressed in pyjamas and dabbing at her damp hair with a towel. When she sees the screen, she stops in her tracks. “Oh, that's it. That's this year's Christmas card.”

Harry starts to giggle in his lap, and he pushes her off (ignoring her “hey!”) and stands. “Excuse me, I have to go kill Sherlock.”

He can hear his entire family cracking up behind him as he stalks to his bedroom.

–

_I hate you. In fact, I am going to murder you next time I see you. So be prepared for that._

_Ah, but now you've lost the element of surprise, and let's face it—that was really your only chance. SH_

_It is going to be painful. Your last words will be “I regret ever having crossed John Watson.”_

_You're feeling tremendously ambitious. SH_

_I like it. SH_

_No flirting. You're not allowed to flirt when I'm angry with you._

_If that were true, I would never flirt with you. SH_

John stares at his mobile, fighting the urge to smile. It's hard to be annoyed when Sherlock is being so damn charming! The worst part is that Sherlock knows it, too. He can play John like he plays his violin, and he does so—often. With a sigh, John flops back onto his bed.

His mobile buzzes again.

_John? SH_

And then, almost immediately:

_Are you actually angry? You haven't replied, and it is difficult to establish subtext while texting. SH_

John smiles at his screen. This is why he lets Sherlock toy with him the way he does—for the moments when the other boy is just a bit sweet and unsure. Sherlock can charm anyone, true, but he is only ever vulnerable with John.

_I'm not angry, you idiot._

_Oh, good. Then you should check your email. SH_

Frowning, John opens the email app on his smart phone. There's a message from Sherlock. When he opens the attachment, it is a picture of himself, photoshopped into some kind of...giant cat costume. His jaw drops. Sherlock better not have—

—his family's raucous laughter carries down the hallway. Sure enough, when John looks at the email again, he sees that it is also addressed to his parents' shared account.

He thumbs out a text quickly.

_I HATE YOU._

_Just wait until I'm done with the one where it's your face on a hedgehog's body. SH_

_I am going to kill you._

_I look forward to thwarting you. Come to mine tomorrow? SH_

John sighs. His heart does something strange and fluttery in his chest. He is so gone.

_See you then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked myself, "how can I feasibly have John and/or Sherlock in a kigurumi?"
> 
> The answer was, "I have no flippin' clue," so I cheated and did this. :)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com) if you want to hear more about this story/writing in general/stuff!


	12. Making out

John takes the tube to Knightsbridge the next morning. When he arrives at the Holmes', he bounds up the front steps and knocks on the front door. To his surprise, Sherlock opens it, still in his dressing gown and pyjamas.

“It's Richard's day off,” Sherlock says automatically. Apparently, John's surprise was an easy deduction. “Come inside, you're letting out all the heat.”

John shuffles through the front door, removing his shoes. He starts to shrug out of his new coat when Sherlock moves behind him, helping him to take it off. It seems a sweet gesture until Sherlock tosses it onto the chaise in the foyer (John tries not to focus on the fact that _the Holmes' have a chaise in their foyer_ ). He takes John's hand and leans down into his personal space.

“Hello,” he grins, his eyes especially blue in the morning light.

John smiles back. “Hello yourself.” He starts to close the gap between them and then pauses. “Mycroft...?”

Sherlock straightens and rolls his eyes. “A tip, John: when we are about to kiss, don't say my brother's name.”

He looks so put out that John has to fight by the urge to giggle. He squeezes Sherlock's hand. “Hey, don't be like that. I just—I know you said you weren't sure how your family would take it, and he's supposed to be around here, isn't he?”

“Do you honestly believe I'd have kissed you if my brother were able to witness it?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose . “Really, I'm not an idiot. Mycroft went back to his last night after he and I had our little chat—apparently, I am in trouble for not telling him I wouldn't be home on Friday, as if it even matters. Mummy and Father aren't due back until Tuesday. Most of the staff is off today, and those who aren't are loyal to me and not my fat brother. We are,” he stoops and puts his lips near John's ear, “alone.”

Something electric goes along John's spine, and he turns his head so that their faces line up. “You planned this?”

Sherlock bites his lip, nods. “I,” he clears his throat, and his pale skins flushes a light pink, “I believe I said something before about...tongue.”

That same electric feeling heads to a very different part of John's anatomy. “I vaguely remember that.”

“Right,” Sherlock takes a step back, “shall we, then?”

They head up the stairs and then into Sherlock's room. John's been in this house, this room dozens of times. There are the chemical stains on the wall from the experiment Sherlock was working on at the beginning of the school year. The Spock costume from their case nearly a week ago is bunched in the corner, ears and all. Sherlock's bed is neatly made and everything smells vaguely of formaldehyde and it all looks so normal that John can scarcely believe he feels so nervous being here.

He turns as soon as they cross the threshold, opening his mouth to say something, but Sherlock has other ideas. He crowds into John's space and walks him back until John's bum hits the bed. He sits. Sherlock hesitates, then settles beside him. His hands clutch at his knees.

“I'm sure it's no great surprise,” he says, his voice strangely loud in the quiet of the room, “that I'm rather new to all this. I know that you have,” he looks as though he's eaten a lemon, “some experience.”

John reaches out and brushes his fingertips lightly over the back of one of Sherlock's hands. “That's okay. I have a feeling you're a quick study.”

A smile faintly touches the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He turns and looks at John head on, eyes wide and open, lips parted ever so slightly.

“We can go as slow as you like,” John tell him as he starts to lean in.

Sherlock's voice is low, gravelly. “What about as fast?”

All of John's synapses seem to snap at once. He moves and captures Sherlock's lips with his own, sweet and hard, but the angle is wrong. He pulls back. “This would be easier if we weren't side by side, but if you're not—“

The word “comfortable” doesn't even leave his lips. Sherlock shifts so that he is lying on his back ( _holy shit_ , thinks John, and it's something he would probably say aloud if his brain were capable of working beyond the minimum capacity) and then grabs John's shirt, yanking him until John tumbles forward on top of him.

“Is this better?” he asks.

John can feel all of Sherlock—the plane of his chest, his flat stomach, his skinny thighs—pressed beneath him. It's different than anything he's done before; Sherlock's the only boy he has ever kissed. It doesn't feel wrong or strange, though. It feels—good. _Really_ good. He squirms a bit, and in response Sherlock spreads his legs and John sinks into the valley between them. John pushes himself onto his palms and stares down at the other boy.

“Holy shit,” he finally manages to vocalize.

Sherlock tugs at his shirt again. “Kiss me.”

John swoops down, falling to his elbows as he seeks out Sherlock's lips. This time, he ducks his head to the right and opens his mouth, just slightly. Sherlock immediately imitates the movement and then lets John guide them back into a closed kiss. They go through that motion again, and then a few times more.

Even now, while still learning, Sherlock kisses with precision. He doesn't make the mistake of opening his mouth too wide, like John had done his first time kissing Sarah (she'd had to pull away and explain to him, which had been so embarrassing, and _why is he thinking about that now_ ). He mimics each of John's motions, soft lips opening and closing against his own, and soon grows a little bolder, even daring to nibble at John's bottom lip without prompting.

It is heavenly, but John pulls away. “I'm going to try something now, so--”

“Stop talking.”

Sherlock strains upward and finds John's mouth, putting his command into effect, and then settles back onto his pillow, John following him down. This time, when the taller boy opens his mouth, John tentatively reaches out with his tongue and curls it around Sherlock's.

Sherlock whimpers. John withdraws.

The next moment Sherlock surges toward him again, replicating John's movements, finding John's tongue and rolling his own over it. He pulls it back a moment later and tries again—he kisses John like it's an experiment, attempting different variations; he uses too much tongue, then too little, then tries licking the backs of John's teeth. John feels as if Sherlock is categorizing all the different parts of his mouth, making mental notes.

It's not what he's used to, but it's strangely _hot_ —it figures that kissing Sherlock would a singular experience. He feels his trousers growing a bit uncomfortably tight, which would be embarrassing if he didn't suspect Sherlock to be in a similar state.

Shifting his weight onto his right arm, John trails a hand down Sherlock's side, enjoying the way it makes Sherlock stutter, pause, and then start kissing him again with even more vigor. When he reaches Sherlock's hip, he grabs it. In response, Sherlock makes a keening sound that is ( _oh my God_ ) going to literally drive John insane, and then hitches his leg up around John's thigh. The movement brings their erections into contact; they groan against each others' mouths.

John pulls away and hovers over Sherlock, who pants through swollen lips. “We need to stop.”

Sherlock shifts. “I don't want to.”

“Yeah, but we need to,” John leans down and presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead before rolling off of him. They lie side by side, staring. For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their heavy breathing. John says, “That was...”

“Something we need to do again as soon as possible,” Sherlock supplies.

John reaches down and grabs Sherlock's hand. He brings it to his lips. “I wholeheartedly agree. Although, I think we should both calm down a bit first.”

Sherlock tangles and untangles their fingers. “Why?”

“It's not a race, Sherlock.”

At that, Sherlock rolls into a sitting position, his back facing John. “I have managed to find and date the one teenager in the world who isn't interested in sex.” He gives a weary sigh, but when he looks over his shoulder, he is smiling. He stands. “Come on, then.”

John props himself up. “Where are we going?”

“It's nearly lunchtime,” Sherlock replies, “and we're going to have ice cream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up this morning feeling all pukey and gross and nearly said, "I CANNOT WRITE THIS CHAPTER TODAY. IT REQUIRES ADORABLE-SWEET-SEXY FIRST TIME MAKE OUTS, AND I FEEL LIKE NONE OF THOSE THINGS."
> 
> But then I went ahead and wrote it because guess what happens when you don't go to work NOTHING JUST HOURS OF TIME TO FEEL AWFUL UGHH.
> 
> I am not a big make out writer. I am great at adorable, and I love to write angst, but I never did get much into writing smut-or-things-that-lead-to-smut. Concrit would be most welcome. :)


	13. Eating ice cream

They head back downstairs into the kitchen. Sherlock ignores all of John's protests (it's _December_ , who eats ice cream in _December_?) and heads straight to the freezer while John sinks into a chair by the table. He still feels a bit dazed, but reality is slowly catching up to him: he just snogged his best friend—his _definitely-more-than-best-friend_ —and now they are going to eat ice cream. It's just hit noon and already it's been a very strange day.

Sherlock pulls out a carton and holds it in one hand, grabbing two spoons from a drawer with the other. He places the ice cream in the center of the table, hands John a spoon, and then pries open the lid.

“We're not going to bother with bowls?” John asks.

“You've just had my tongue in your mouth,” Sherlock replies, sinking his spoon into his treat. “Are you so worried about germs?”

He considers asking Sherlock what his excuse is for not bothering with nutrition but decides against it and instead takes a big bite. It's delicious stuff—Sherlock's family obviously doesn't skimp and buy the store brand. It's vanilla, which isn't John's favorite, but it's so rich and creamy that he doesn't mind.

Sherlock makes a slurping sound. “Good, right?”

“Yeah, where did you get...”

John loses all his words.

Across the table, Sherlock licks at his spoon. His tongue—the same tongue that has recently been in John's mouth—runs along the bowl of it until it's clean. He sighs a little, digs out another bite, and then repeats the process.

It's not naughty, per se. Sherlock isn't playing it up with fake moaning or suggestive sucking. He isn't even making eye contact—hell, his eyes are closed! And yet there is something undeniably sexy about watching his tongue dart out for little kitten licks, pink against silver and white. The innocence of the gesture is alluring.

That is, until he cracks one eye open and smirks around his spoon.

“You're doing this on purpose,” John says, realizing he's been holding the same spoonful of melting ice cream all throughout Sherlock's little show.

Sherlock hums in response. “It would appear so.”

“That is a bit evil of you.”

In response, Sherlock makes an absolutely _obscene_ noise.

A glob of ice cream falls from the spoon in John's left hand onto his lap. He looks down at the spot as if only just remembering that he, too, was eating. For a brief moment, he considers fighting fire with fire and trying his hand at pornographically enjoying his own so-called lunch, but instead he swallows down what's left on his spoon, grabs Sherlock by the collar and hauls him in for a kiss.

It's sloppy—the angle is difficult, with the table between them—and it's sticky and it tastes like vanilla. Sherlock moans again, this time much more authentically. He pulls away only to hoist himself on top of the table, swinging his legs over to the other side so that they bracket John's torso.

He lowers himself onto John's lap, straddling him, and they both audibly inhale.

“Sherlock,” John says, reaching up to trace his cheekbone. He wants to say more— _Sherlock, I don't know what we're doing_ , or _Sherlock, I have never felt this way about another person_ , or _Sherlock, this is so fast_ , or _Sherlock, I want this and don't at the same time_ —but no words come to him. Instead of talking, he strokes Sherlock's cheek and hopes that the other boy can deduce everything he's thinking.

The chair wobbles under their combined weight. Sherlock turns his face into John's hand. “Don't think the chair appreciates this much.”

“We could,” John clears his throat, “we could go back to your bedroom.”

Sherlock's eyes snap open as he scans John's face. Whatever he sees there, he seems to like, as he leans forward and kisses John, hard and deep.

“Oh,” says a voice from the doorway.

Both boys freeze and turn to look at the man lingering in the entrance to the kitchen. Mycroft Holmes arches an eyebrow at them.

“I assume that this is why you told me to piss off yesterday,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry. :)


	14. Genderswapped

Nobody moves. Under Mycroft's gaze, Sherlock feels increasingly heavy in John's lap. He has half a mind to push the taller boy back, but Sherlock's arms are still twined around him, and John doesn't think it would do much good. 

After a long, awkward pause, Mycroft clears his throat and gestures a hand at his brother. “Do you plan on sitting there all afternoon, Sherlock?”

Sherlock remains put. “I'm quite comfortable.”

“Mr. Watson doesn't seem to be,” Mycroft snipes.

Sherlock whips his head to look down at John, who has somehow surpassed red and begun to turn a sickly shade of fuschia. With a reluctant sigh, he slides back and stands, leaning his weight against the table.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asks. He looks like a catalogue model, casually posed; it doesn't seem fair that he can appear to be so calm when his older brother is probably about to murder John. “I told you to leave me alone.”

“I've rather neglected you this week, and so I thought I'd take you to lunch. You didn't answer your phone when I texted you. Naturally, I assumed that you were up to some sort of trouble.” Mycroft's gaze lingers on John. “I wasn't completely wrong.”

“Piss _off_ , Mycroft.”

“No.”

“Fine!” Sherlock holds out his hand to John, who frowns but takes it. He pulls him off the chair and toward the doorway, which his older brother is still blocking. “Come on, John, we'll go upstairs.”

Mycroft sighs but holds his ground. “You are making things unnecessarily difficult on yourself, Sherlock. Now calm down, and let's talk rationally about this.”

“I don't want to talk to you. I don't owe you an explana--”

“Sherlock!” John interjects, tugging at his hand until the taller boy relinquishes it. “Just _stop_ , okay?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, John regrets them. Although he wasn't aware until this moment, there are two sides to this fight, and he just chose the wrong one. Sherlock turns to stare at him, pale and wide-eyed with unmasked betrayal. His mouth opens and closes several times before he finds his voice. “Fine.”

Guilt lances through John's chest. He takes a step toward Sherlock, who steps back. He drops his voice low, says, “Hey, I didn't mean...”

“I said it's fine.”

It is definitely not fine. “Just—let's talk about this for a minute, yeah?”

“God, what is it you two think we need to discuss, anyway?” Sherlock looks back and forth between his brother and John. “Brother, I am in a homosexual relationship with John Watson. There. It's been said aloud, we've all heard and acknowledged it, and life continues. I don't believe we've stopped the world turning. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Sherlock pushes past his brother, elbowing him hard in the ribs as he goes. His dressing gown flaps as he turns the corner; they both hear the pounding of his steps as he stomps upstairs. When John goes to chase after him, however, Mycroft catches his elbow.

“I wouldn't,” the elder Holmes tells him with a sad shake of his head. “Best to let him be.”

John shrugs his elbow away. “But he's upset, and I--”

“You did nothing wrong. He was the one who chose to be unreasonable.”

Something heavy sits in John's stomach as he considers Mycroft's words. What he's said is not completely wrong, of course; John was just trying to diffuse the situation, not trying to pick sides. Still, the fact remains that Sherlock did not see it that way, and is upstairs in his room, hurt and fuming...

Mycroft remains in the doorway, deliberately blocking it. “John,” he says, his tone even, “you cannot chase after him every time he acts this way.”

John glares. “And why not?”

“Because he always acts this way. He throws his tantrums, he sulks, he moves on. He needs time, not someone hovering. Now, I really say we ought to talk.”

“About what?” John spits, moving away from the doorway. He slumps into his abandoned seat in front of the kitchen table. The ice cream is turning to soup in the carton. “Look, I'm not going to stop seeing him just because you don't approve or whatever. Sherlock is--”

“You seem to be operating under some misapprehension that I care if my brother is gay,” Mycroft interrupts with a mighty glare of his own. It's a good sight more effective than John's, but he refuses to quail under it. “I don't. I cannot, however, guarantee the same attitude from our parents, whose views are, shall we say, antiquated.”

John runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Sherlock's already told me all this.”

Mycroft betrays some surprise, blinking rapidly. “Yes, well. I have cause to be concerned with how they will react to the news. My parents do not understand Sherlock very well, and they never have,” he says, after a tense moment, “Mummy tries, occasionally, but for the most part, they've given up on ever doing so.”

It's sad, to hear Sherlock's history spelled out so plainly, but not surprising. After all, John and Sherlock have been friends for six months. He's been to this house many times, and yet he has never once met Mr. or Mrs. Holmes. They are always out and about—society functions, holidays. Sherlock has told John more about Richard, the Holmes' butler, than about his own parents.

“I understand him,” John replies, his voice and his gaze steady. “That's all that matters.”

The smile that twists the corner of Mycroft's mouth is bitter. “Has he ever told you that we all thought he was a girl, before he was born?”

Why would he? “No.”

“I was seven. Mummy was elated when she found out. She spent months picking the right shade of pink for the nursery, and she bought clothes by the tonne. It was the happiest I ever remember seeing her.” Mycroft looks away. “She cried when the nurse told her she'd had a little boy. The way he was positioned in the sonogram—an honest mistake, of course, but Father had the technician fired.”

The ice cream melting to John's left sends a sticky-sweet vanilla perfume into the air; he pretends that it is the stench that is making him nauseous. He's always imagined it was difficult for Sherlock growing up; it must not have been easy, to parent two children like Sherlock and Mycroft. Now, however, he can see Sherlock's childhood a little bit more clearly. What must it have felt like, to be that young and still smart enough to know he wasn't wanted as he was?

“Why are you telling me this?” John asks, stumbling over the words.

“Because I worry about my brother constantly, and I don't think you know him quite as well as you believe.” Mycroft sighs and smooths a hand down his jacket, “I won't tell Mummy or Father. Now, I think it's best you went home. I'll call a car for you.”

John stands, shaking his head. “No, I want to talk to him. I want--”

“Considering the position I just caught you in, you'll forgive me if I don't feel entirely comfortable letting you visit my brother in his bedroom without supervision.” He doesn't even raise an eyebrow at John's embarrassment. “I am going to be more present this week, since our parents are extending their trip--”

Wait. What?

“But I thought...” John frowns. “He didn't mention that before.”

“Really? He was rather irritated when I called him away from your house yesterday to tell him.”

“He told me they were due back Tuesday.”

Mycroft rubs a hand at his forehead. “That was what they'd intended, initially. Now they're staying through Sunday. I assume he didn't mention it because he did not want to worry you.”

“Well, now I know, and I'm worried. Can't I just--”

“John.” Mycroft is stern, but his eyes are softer than his demeanor. He doesn't seem to hate John, which is encouraging, even if his next words are: “Tomorrow is a school day. I really think you ought to head home.”

Defeat wells up in John's chest. “Will you tell him to text, me at least? Let him know that I'm sorry?”

Mycroft nods as he ushers John out the door. There's a black car waiting by the kerb, and John slides in. He gets out his phone as soon as he can.

_Are you angry?_

_Sherlock?_

_Sherlock?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Difficult prompt for me, as I am trying to keep this within one universe/timeline and in a single, coherent storyline. Used "genderswapped" more for inspiration, than anything. The ending I originally wrote for this chapter was much happier and sweeter, but it just wasn't right, which is why it took me an extra day to get this one done.
> 
> Thanks to all my new subscribers, tumblr buddies, commenters, kudos-ers. You guys are great. Think the next chapter will be fairly substantial, but I hope to still have it out tomorrow.


	15. In a different clothing style

Sherlock never texts him back that evening. Sherlock is not in the courtyard Monday morning. Sherlock does not walk home with him after school.

\--

On Tuesday, Sebastian Wilkes catches up to John in the hallway.

“Waston!  Hey, Watson!”  He calls, jogging up to John’s side.  “Have you seen Sherlock?”

The question makes John grit his teeth.  He hasn’t heard from Sherlock in 48 hours.  He assumes that the other boy has been coming to school, as Mycroft would probably have his head if he didn’t, but he hasn't met up with John in the mornings, and he skipped their shared class yesterday. None of John’s texts have been answered, and when he got on the tube last night, determined to surprise Sherlock into speaking to him, he’d received a message from  _MH_  advising him to go home.  He’d got off at the next stop and turned around, defeated.

“I haven’t,” John says, hoping his voice is even.  “Tried texting him?”

Sebastian shrugs.  “Yep.  He hasn’t answered.  Well, when you talk to him, would you mind asking him if he’s going to take my brother’s case or not?”

“Case?”

“Yeah.  He didn’t mention it?  My brother went out to a concert on Saturday night—some punk outfit.  Bit of a black sheep, Rodney is, but I suppose you can’t choose your family.  Anyway, he got robbed, and he has no idea how they managed it.  I thought Sherlock might be able to help.”  Wilkes claps him on the shoulder and sends him an oily smile.  “Let him know I’ll make it worth his while, if he wants to help.”

John nods.  “I’ll talk to him.”

Sebastian nods and walks away.  John does not tell him that he worries that Sherlock will not talk back.

\--

_Wilkes wants to know if you’ll take his brother's case._

He sends the text on the tube ride back home, nearly jumping out of his skin when his phone buzzes in his hand immediately.

_Wilkes is an idiot. I took that case Sunday evening.  SH_

John sighs with relief. Communication! He'd begun to worry that Sherlock would never speak him again. Now he just needs to figure out what to see in reply. He stares at the screen, hoping to divine the answer there. When that doesn't work, he starts to fidget in his seat. The lady next to him gives him an amused smile.

“Your girlfriend?” she asks, adjusting the scarf around her neck.

“Er,” John hesitates and does a quick glance around. No one is paying them any attention, and the woman seems harmless enough, so he ventures, “Boyfriend, actually.”

She pats his knee. “Well, I hope he knows how very lucky he is to have someone who cares so much for him.” John's confusion must show on his face because she adds, “You should have seen the way you grinned when you got that text message.”

“First row,” John explains, shrugging and keeping his eyes down so that his embarrassment doesn't show. “As a couple, anyway. I'm just glad to be hearing from him again.”

“Sounds like you missed him,” she says, just as John's mobile goes off again. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles, “Sounds like he missed you, too.”

John looks down at the text.

_Need your help with the case, obviously. Are you on your way? SH_

–

As he gets off at the next stop and quickly catches the train going the opposite direction, it occurs to John that he's never really told Sherlock how he feels. He thinks of the woman on the tube— _I hope he knows how very lucky he is to have someone who cares so much for him_ —and resolves to make Sherlock understand.

–

Richard opens the door before John even knocks, and Sherlock fights his way past the butler and out onto the front step. Before they can even exchange a word, he grabs John's hand and hauls him into the foyer and up the stairs to his room. Once they're inside, he slams the door shut and presses John against it.

“Hi,” Sherlock says, standing close.

John blinks owlishly. “Hello to you, too.”

Leaning down, Sherlock catches John's mouth with his own. When his tongue lightly touches John's bottom lip, he opens willingly. All the blood rushes from John's head at once, and he goes a bit dizzy. After another moment, he pulls back.

Panting, he asks, “What was that for?”

Sherlock drops another quick kiss on his lips and steps away. “Do I need a reason?”

Now that the other boy is not so distractingly close, John notices something different. Well, several things. Namely, Sherlock's outfit: he is decked out in a band tee that declares him a fan of The Misfits, tight, black jeans, a studded belt, and heavy boots. It's a far cry from his usual tailored pants and close-fitting shirts.

“What is...?” John gestures at Sherlock's entire person.

Glancing down as if he's forgotten what he was wearing, Sherlock shrugs. “Oh. The case. I got you an outfit, too.” He flaps his hand in the direction of the bed. “It's over there, in the shopping bag.”

“Alright,” John says, confused. “I'll just...change, I guess. But first, I have to know: are we okay? I mean, don't get me wrong, that was an excellent way to be greeted, but I'm confused because you were, you know, pretty upset, and are you not mad anymore, or--”

“John. Stop babbling. Breathe. Attempt to complete a sentence.”

John immediately quits talking.,

“We're fine. I am not angry with you. I listened to what you and Mycroft talked about,” Sherlock cuts John off before he can even begin, “I only faked going to my room. I doubled back and sat on the steps. Obvious.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

Sherlock shrugs. “You seemed upset. I thought I ought to give you time. Isn't that what one is meant to do?” At John's blank expression, Sherlock huffs out an annoyed sigh. “I knew that was a terrible idea. Mycroft lectured me for a good hour on Sunday, told me I should let you have space.”

John quirks a brow. “You took advice from _Mycroft_?”

At that, Sherlock pauses. His shoulders round, turning him sheepish. In his current outfit, he looks ludicrous. “Well, I didn't especially want to, but I...” he clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft, “He said I'd upset you by storming off, and I couldn't see your face, so I wasn't sure. I told you before, John. I don't really know what I'm doing here.”

“It's fine,” John steps close, “I just didn't understand. I'm not angry.”

Reaching up, John folds his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and brings him into a hug. They haven't really embraced before; they've held hands, they've cuddled, they've snogged, but they haven't simply _hugged_. That was clearly an extreme oversight, as Sherlock seems to melt against him, all his awkward angles disappearing as he tugs John closer, tighter against him.

“I'm sorry I upset you the other day,” John mumbles into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock gently touches the back of John's neck. “Shut up.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, standing in the middle of Sherlock's room. John can actually _feel_ the moment Sherlock becomes antsy and loses interest. He takes a step back, smiling a bit at the other boy's guilty expression; Sherlock will never be a great romantic.

John plucks at the Misfits shirt. “So, tell me about the case.”

Sherlock lights up, his mind instantly going a hundred miles an hour. “Rodney Wilkes was at a punk concert on Saturday night when he was robbed of several thousand dollars. He told Sebastian, who sent him to me.”

“Bloody hell,” John's jaw drops, “Why did he have several thousand dollars on him?”

“He was dealing drugs.”

“ _What_?”

Sherlock wanders to his bed. The shopping bag sits atop the duvet, and he rifles around inside of it, pulling out a bottle of something. He tosses the bag at John, who catches it and looks inside—there's a t-shirt for some band called Bad Brains, a pair of jeans, and what looks to be a studded bracelet.

“The elder Wilkes is a small time drug dealer. How do you think Sebastian gets all that great spliff?” Sherlock studies the back of the bottle. He moves to the bathroom but leaves the door open so he can be heard. “Rodney expressed interest in moving up in the business. He was doing a trial run at the concert for a dealer named Ice—rather important man, Ice. Agreed to try Rodney and his boys out for an evening, give them some of the harder stuff to sell. Which they did, only one of Rodney's lackeys was beat up in an alley. Whoever did it stole all his money and the rest of their supply. Now, Rodney is several thousand dollars in debt to one of the biggest drugs operations in town, and Ice is charging him interest by the day.”

“So?”

“So...what?” Sherlock glances out and sees that John is staring at him, holding the bag. “Why aren't you changing?”

“Because—how can you ask me that? Rodney Wilkes is a drug dealer. Do you know how dangerous this is? You could get _hurt_ , Sherlock. If you ask me, we should let Sebastian's brother figure this one out on his own.”

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Sherlock squirts a bit of product from the bottle into his palm. He parts a section of his hair and coats it thoroughly, working it into a spike. It takes a few seconds to dry, but when it does, it stands straight out from Sherlock's head. “Wilkes offered me a thousand pounds to figure out what happened.”

Even though it shouldn't, the amount of money makes John's eyes bulge. “You don't need the money, though.”

“It doesn't hurt to have it,” Sherlock says, creating more and more spikes as he speaks, “I know Mycroft told you, about my parents. It's all true, unfortunately. I'm fairly certain that if I ever try to broach the subject of my sexuality, they will disown me.” His smile in the mirror is decidedly unpleasant. “Think of this as an investment in my future.”

Even though he's never actually met them, John rather hates Sherlock's parents. “Well, when you put it like that, it's hard for me to object.”

Sherlock looks out and smirks at him. “I know. Get dressed and then get in here. I need you to spike my hair in the  
back.”

John sighs. “Why is it that every time you have a case, I end up doing your hair?”

–

When they walk into the club, the band has already started their set. It's a Tuesday night, so the crowd is thin and the music is bad. The group loitering by the bar have bright colored hair, gelled mohawks, leather jackets, and tight jeans. Seeing them reminds John that he looks like that, and he feels faintly ridiculous.

He chances a glance to his left as they make their way across the floor. Sherlock, of course, seems completely comfortable. It's insane; at least John has _heard_ of The Misfits. Sherlock's iPod consists entirely of classical music, and yet he is the one who looks like he owns this place. The boy should win a BAFTA, or something.

And, well, John doesn't hate the clinging trousers Sherlock is sporting, either.

They pause by the gents, leaning casually against the wall and trying to blend in. Sherlock nods to a man at the far end of the bar, whose head is shaved except for a lime greek mohawk. “That's Ice,” he mutters, “He doesn't know we're looking into this, and he can't find out. Rodney is the one next to him who looks terrified.”

It's easy to pick out Sebastian's older brother; the other Wilkes has the same simpering look about him, the same too-eager grin. His hair is dyed black, and he's wearing a thick leather jacket over a dark shirt. He looks to be speaking to Ice, who is sipping a pint and happily ignoring him.

“What's the plan?”

“We're going to try and buy from Ice and his cronies. Rodney's boys have all been recruited now, and they work for Ice. An even bigger punishment, you see. Now, if Rodney wants to pay back what he owes, he has to raise the funds entirely on his own. There should be four dealers around here—overkill, on a night like this, but two of them will be Ice's regular men, here to train the two he stole from Wilkes. I'm not sure who used to be Wilkes' men. I asked, but Rodney didn't answer me when I texted him. We'll just have to talk to all of them.”

John hisses, “We're buying _drugs_?”

Sherlock shoots him a look that clearly means _stop-being-a-simpleton_. “We just need to get close to them so that I can check them out. I'm fairly certain I can prove everything once I—oh, God, is it really that easy?”

When John follows Sherlock's line of sight, he sees a young man walk past them—early twenties with an eyebrow piercing and a neck tattoo. He's also limping and sporting a rather impressive shiner. “Is that the guy who got jumped?”

“'Jumped!'” Sherlock scoffs. “Everyone is an idiot except for me.” He looks over at John, sighs. “And, well, you. Sometimes.”

It's pathetic, the way that makes John's heart beat a little faster.

Before he has a moment to ponder that thought, Sherlock is off, striding across the floor at a breakneck pace. John jogs behind, his borrowed boots loud against the wood floor. He practically has to skid to a stop when Sherlock abruptly halts in front of Ice and Rodney.

“Rodney,” Sherlock pronounces in his plummy tones, incongruous with his outfit, “you are an absolute imbecile.”

Ice bursts into laughter. “Alright, kid! Not a bad first impression. Who the hell are you?”

Sherlock turns the full force of his gaze on to Ice, who instantly stops laughing. The sudden lack of sound makes John flinch; it is difficult to be the recipient of the full weight of Sherlock's attention, he knows from experience. It tends to grate on people's nerves. It doesn't seem wise to provoke a powerful drug dealer, but it's all a bit late now. Unless John spontaneously develops the power to produce duct tape from nowhere, there's no way he can stop Sherlock from spouting every deduction that comes to his head

“My name,” Sherlock says, “is Sherlock Holmes, and I was hired by our mutual friend here,” he motions at Rodney, “to look into who stole his money on Saturday night. It seems you've dodged quite the bullet, in not having to give Rodney any more power, as he is clearly an idiot.”

Rodney pipes up, “Hey!”

“Shut up, I'm talking to Ice. Now, it was a clever enough thought: stage a mugging, get the entirety of the profits instead of just your cut, demand more money for the 'lost' product, and get back whatever drugs weren't already sold. It's obvious, just from your body language, that you don't really like Rodney. So, on Saturday, you bribed one of his men, had him set it up to look like he'd been robbed.” Sherlock grins. “You offered Rodney this opportunity and set him up to fail—clever, truly. A plan that allows you to get rid of a casual colleague you despise and double your profit: very good.”

Ice looks pale in the club's dim lighting. “I've no idea what you're on about.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up. I was _praising_ you. Note the use of 'was.' The one who was supposedly robbed, that's him over there, yes?” He points at the limping man across the room.

Rodney nods numbly. “Bobby.”

“Bobby, then. The finger patterns on the bruise indicate that he was punched by a right hand in the right eye. That would be an awkward punch, but not impossible. But! Look at the bruising under his eye—it matches someone's knuckles, can't you see it? Directly under his eye, horizontal. People swing when they throw a punch, they get their power from their torso and they turn their hand. The bruising should be vertical, then, not horizontal. Unless Bobby was idiot enough to run directly into someone's fist, it would appear that he punched himself. And why would he punch himself? To stage a robbery. And why would he stage a robbery? Well, considering he couldn't even think to ask someone to beat him up, I'm assuming he's no criminal mastermind. Therefore, someone told him to stage it. And who is the person who would stand to gain from that gesture?”

Three pairs of eyes go to Ice, who has suddenly turned bright red.

“I'll rip you apart, you little poofter,” he snarls, lunging toward Sherlock.

John steps in front of the other boy. “Get the hell away from him.”

Behind him, Sherlock produces his mobile and begins to text— _text_! Everyone gapes at him, but he just smirks, eerie in the glow produced by the screen. “Have you ever heard of Mycroft Holmes?”

Ice stops, blinks. “...No.”

“Yes, and there's a reason for that. He's my older brother, he is extremely powerful, and as far as I know, he has never heard of you, either.” Sherlock turns and begins to walk away. “Unless you would like for that to change, I would suggest that you leave me and my friend here alone.” He stops and looks over his shoulder. “Oh, and stop threatening Rodney, I suppose.”

John moves by Sherlock's side. He tries and fails not to enjoy the sight of the older men gaping at his friend. Sherlock is playing at texting, but really, he's reveling in the victory. Looking at him, John is struck with a thought: one day, Sherlock Holmes is going to be a great man.

Sherlock suddenly drops his phone and spins around. “And Rodney, I expect you to tack on extra for the ridiculous clothes you made me buy so that John and I would 'fit in.' Honestly, I can't believe you had me spend money on this when your case could have been solved by anyone with a pair of functioning eyeballs. Please send the cheque care of Sebastian.” He grabs John's elbow and strides toward the door. “Laters!”

–

Outside in the night air, John bursts into laughter. “Did you just say 'laters' to an important drug dealer and a club full of punks?”

Sherlock fights a grin. He loses. “I solved the case.”

“Was there any doubt you would?” John asks. Sherlock stares at the ground, still smiling to himself. “Where did you get these ridiculous clothes, anyway?”

“Skipped the last class of the day yesterday and bought them then. Didn't you notice I was absent?”

John decides not to tell Sherlock just how much he noticed. Instead, he nudges himself closer and rests his head against Sherlock's upper arm. “Cab home?”

“Yes, and as soon as possible. I need to get this stuff out of my hair.” There's a pause. “Do you want to stay at mine tonight?”

“I'd need to check with my parents, since it's a school night,” John says, carefully ignoring the warm, blooming feeling in his chest. “Won't Mycroft mind?”

“Mycroft is fat.”

“He really isn't.”

“If he says anything, we'll just outrun him.”

John laughs loud, and it carries in the cool night air. It feels good. “I'm really mad for you. You know that, right?”

Sherlock goes tense under John's touch. He moves his arm out from beneath John's head, but only so that he can swing it around his shoulders. When he raises a hand toward the street, a cab instantly stops. John is impressed, considering how they're both dressed.

As they slide into the back seat, Sherlock's lips find John's ear and he whispers, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I originally thought of this case fic for [Fuckyeahteenlock's](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com) Punklock Contest a few months ago. I wrote a few hundred words, got terribly insecure, and gave up on entering. It ended up being useful, though, because as soon as I saw this prompt, I knew I could adapt my original idea to it.
> 
> I'm sorry this was late--it's been a rough week, emotionally, and it's taken a toll on my writing. I can't promise that I'm completely recovered, but I am still dedicated to this challenge, and I still want to update everyday, so hopefully, I can work it out.
> 
> Also, my formatting went all wonky. Please tell me if you notice something wrong.
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience. Sorry to keep you waiting!
> 
> As always, thank you to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for all her help!
> 
> <3archie


	16. Spooning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated and swapped the prompts for today and tomorrow. I'M A REBEL.

“I don’t know, John. It’s already late, and it’s a school night.”

John grips his mobile tightly and hunches his shoulders, trying to conserve heat in the leather jacket Sherlock lent him. How do punks stay warm in the winter? He's half-frozen, and all he's doing is standing outside the Holmes residence, pleading into his phone while Sherlock watches him hopefully from the steps. If he dressed like this every day, he would turn into an icicle!

But then, John's always preferred hot weather. 

“Please, Mum? It’ll be half ten before I get home. I’d rather just stay here.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that the time is your principal motivation,” she laughs. The poor connection makes it sound tinny. “Are his parents around? I’d like to speak to them, make sure it’s alright.”

Drumming his fingers against his leg, John grimaces. “Well, no. They aren’t here.” When he glances up at Sherlock, the other boy glares and mouths to him that he is an idiot. “His older brother is, though.”

The look Sherlock gives him could freeze hell. Apparently, that was not the way he wanted John to handle the situation.

“John…” his mum sighs, “I just think that—“

Somehow without John noticing, Sherlock has managed to make it down the steps and pluck the mobile from John’s hand. He presses it to his ear and pushes a hand against John’s chest, keeping him at a distance.

“Mrs. Watson?” he says. “Yes, it’s me. Well, thank you, and you?” He’s silent for a moment as he listens to John’s mum answer. “I understand that. Would you like to speak to my brother? We have a spare bedroom that John could—oh. Well, I assure you, my parents could not care less about what I do.”

John ducks under Sherlock’s arm and reaches up to snag his phone back. He dodges when Sherlock scrambles after him and runs up to the top of the stairs. He’s a bit breathless when he asks, “Mum?”

“What did Sherlock mean?” Mrs. Watson demands. “About his parents. He’s just—is he okay?”

“Not the time, Mum,” John mutters.

His mother is silent on the other end of the line. Finally, she says, “Alright. Just this once, though. I don’t want to make a habit out of sleepovers on weeknights.”

John breaks into a grin. When he looks up, Sherlock has already run up the steps and flung open the door, having deduced Mrs. Watson’s agreement from John’s face. He takes John’s hand and tugs him inside as John fumbles through a goodbye to his mother and rings off. They pause for a moment, smiling stupidly at each other. John touches one of the spikes in Sherlock’s hair.

“This is not a great look for you,” he says, flicking at the spike. It’s hard and barely even wobbles under John’s treatment. “What on earth was that stuff, anyway? Your hair is practically made of rock.”

“Hair glue. I read about it online.”

From the stairs behind them, Mycroft says, “Well, I do hope it comes out, and that you’re not permanently stuck that way.”

Sherlock turns around and flips off his older brother. It is a testament to their relationship that even now, with Sherlock standing in the foyer, dressed as a punk and gone for half the night, Mycroft does not even seem to be phased. In fact, he looks entirely relaxed; the elder Holmes is wearing sleep pants and a dressing gown tied tightly at the waist. There's something strange about seeing Mycroft dressed down; even though John has only met the man in person twice, he feels as though Mycroft should always be wearing a suit.

“John is staying over,” Sherlock announces, apropos of nothing. He doesn’t look away from John, but there’s a distinct tightness around his eyes that he always has when he talks to or about Mycroft.

His brother heaves a sigh. “Yes, I got that from the stammering phone call that took place just below my bedroom window. He’ll use the guest room, of course.”

“Of course.”

Mycroft blinks. Apparently, he’d expected more of a fight over separate bedrooms. He recovers quickly, though, and merely shrugs. “Make sure to put his uniform in the wash so he has something wear to school tomorrow.”

Sherlock glares at his brother over his shoulder. “Yes, _mother_.”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft makes his way up the stairs. Neither boy moves until they hear the sound of his bedroom door closing.

“I wasn’t thinking about my uniform,” John says, frowning, “I should go grab it from your room. Where is your—“

“I told our housekeeper, Anna, to do it before we left.”

“Before we left? But…” The implication sinks in slowly. “You—you planned for me to stay over?”

“Well, yes. I just thought—is that alright?” Sherlock’s smile is nervous. John doesn’t say anything, but he really doesn’t have to; whatever Sherlock reads on his face is apparently enough, as he leans down and gives John a light kiss. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

The room is, of course, beautiful. It looks like it came straight from a magazine (“It probably did,” Sherlock informs him as he casts a disdainful glare at the pristine white walls), with high ceilings and the clean lines of modern furniture. Everything is in its proper place; indeed, despite the fact that the room is dust-free and obviously well-maintained, it manages to feel as if no one has ever been here before.

Sherlock leaves him to go take a shower, and John changes into the pyjamas that are magically waiting for him atop the duvet. He can’t recall ever meeting an Anna who works for the Holmeses, but he resolves to have Sherlock point her out so that he can thank her. John slips under the covers and is nearly asleep when the bedroom door opens a crack and then closes again. Bleary, he turns in time to see Sherlock, hair still damp from his shower, tip toe his way across the room and slide next to him on the bed.

“Hey,” John says, voice thick, “what are you doing?”

“Sleeping with you,” Sherlock fumbles a bit, “ _Next_ to you, I mean.”

John tries to sit up. It’s tough, what with Sherlock tugging his elbow out from under him. He falls back onto the pillows with a huff. “But Mycroft said—“

“Mycroft said, and I quote: ‘He’ll’—meaning you—‘use the guest room, of course.’ And you are. This is the guest room, and you are using it. I just happen to be using it, too.”

It's a terrible plan, John knows. He's already half-convinced that Mycroft wants to murder him, and directly disobeying Sherlock's older brother is not the way to get on his good side. As he thinks that, however, Sherlock nudges John onto his side and then curls around him. A long, skinny arm snakes under his own and rests against John's chest. He can feel Sherlock's breath against the back of his neck. It's a strange sensation--John has never been held like this before. It's a little claustrophobic, honestly, what with Sherlock clinging a bit too tight to him, but it's also...nice. Comforting. Sherlock burrows his nose into John's hair, and that feels even nicer. His arm goes a little numb from lying atop it, and yet it's strangely worth it for the feeling of Sherlock's front pressed against his back.

Halfway to sleep, John mumbles, "Hey, Sherlock. Are you my boyfriend?"

When Sherlock laughs, John can feel the heat of his breath. "Yes, John."

"I thought so."

A kiss on the back of John's head. "Excellent deduction."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just totally grossed myself out with how cute this was. No lie. I just want to throw them into an angsty pile of angst to balance it all out!
> 
> Thanks for all the responses I got for the last chapter, both here and on tumblr, and for the inquiries into my well being! I am feeling a bit better. I very much appreciate your guys' concern. I also love love love hearing all your comments--it means the world! Please keep them coming. :)


	17. During their morning ritual

The first thing John notices as he wakes is that he is really, ridiculously hot. It feels as though he slept in a sauna, and he has no idea why. It's only as he goes to rub the sleep from his eyes and finds his right arm trapped beneath Sherlock's weight that he remembers the night before and grins to himself, suddenly giddy. At some point in the night, he and Sherlock must have shifted; he is now on his back and Sherlock is sprawled out, half on top of him with limbs akimbo. Between the flannel pyjamas, the duvet, and his very human blanket, he is surrounded in a warm cocoon.

It's rather worth it, though, to be able to observe Sherlock like this. For once, the other boy looks completely relaxed, his eyes moving behind his lids as he goes through a REM cycle. His hair is wild—he didn't dry it before joining John in bed; half of it is pressed down from lying against John's chest, and the other half is sticking straight out. His lips are parted and he is breathing through his mouth. John can feel his breaths through his t-shirt.

Part of John wants to skip school and not move all day. He can't recall ever seeing Sherlock this vulnerable before; even though he lets his guard down with John moreso than with anyone else, he's still not what anyone would classify as an 'open book.' In sleep, he is so soft and sweet—John wishes he could bottle this moment and keep it with him all the time so that he might live it again and again.

Life does not work that way, however, and John has already missed a few too many school days due to his concussion. Exams are coming up, and he can't afford to skip any more classes. He doesn't know how often they'll get to enjoy this, however, so he gives himself a few more seconds to soak in the feeling of waking up this way.

He counts to thirty in his head and then brushes a hand through Sherlock's hair. “Sherlock. Sherlock, it's time to get up.”

Sherlock makes a snuffling noise into John's chest and stirs, but he does not wake up.

John pets his hair again. “We need to get ready for school.”

“Don't want to,” Sherlock mumbles into his chest. He suddenly jolts into full consciousness. “Why is it so bloody _hot_?”

“Side effect of body heat,” John replies, a smile tugging at his lips as Sherlock shifts and looks up at him, bleary-eyed and blinking against the sun pouring through the window. “Morning.”

Pulling himself up so that they're face to face, Sherlock nudges his nose against John's. “Good morning,” he replies, before leaning down for a kiss.

It's different than before; they're both still a little sleepy, so it's slow and slightly messy, but it's also the most glorious thing John has ever felt. He pulls away as it starts to turn from a lovely morning snog into something with more intention. If they start committing to a serious make out session, they will both miss school.

John pushes himself up into the sitting position, trying not to grin when Sherlock makes a noise of protest. He stretches his hands above his head and lets out a great yawn. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he asks, “Where do you think my uniform ended up?”

Sherlock sprawls out into the empty space, a pile of awkard limbs and hair. He shoves his face into a pillow. “My room, maybe?”

“Right.”

John pads to the door and opens it, only to find Mycroft standing on the other side. It's only half six, but he is already back into one of his immaculately tailored suits. The elder Holmes frowns at him, ginger brows drawn together.

Blinking, John says, “Good morning.”

Mycroft arches a brow. “I'm sure.”

“Go away, Mycroft,” Sherlock enunciates into his pillow, “As you can no doubt tell, we've emerged the night with our virtues intact, so leave us alone.”

It's stupid, of course, but for the first time John realises that Mycroft can probably deduce things the way Sherlock can. It would make sense; both brothers are geniuses, after all. If that's true, however, it means that Mycroft is currently reading John's virginity all over his face (or his posture or how he wears his pyjama bottoms or whatever clue it is the pair of them use to determine these things). It's so embarrassing that John can hardly stand it.

“Anna informed me that your uniform was in Sherlock's room, John. She also informed me that Sherlock was _not_ , so I thought it best I make sure you two actually got to school.”

“Not a problem,” John says, a bit too quickly, “er, I mean. That was always the plan, of course, and I would never--”

Sherlock throws his pillow across the room. It falls short, barely making it half way to the door, but the gesture speaks for itself. “You've made him babble. Thanks ever so. I'm trying to train him out of that, you know.”

John could swear Mycroft nearly cracks a smile. “My apologies. Breakfast is in ten minutes, and I expect you both to be there on time.”

With that, Sherlock's brother turns on his heel and strides out of sight.

“Honestly,” Sherlock says, finally sitting up, “that went far better than I expected.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

–

Nine minutes later, both boys are sitting at the table. Anna's made eggs, but John doesn't have the appetite for them—he is more of a beans on toast person in the mornings. It is especially hard to eat when Mycroft is sitting opposite him at the table, observing him carefully.

He grimaces, swallows his eggs. They do not go down easily.

To his right, Sherlock sips tea and completely ignores all food placed in front of him. “Can we take a car to school?”

The elder Holmes rolls his eyes. “No. It is a fifteen minute walk, Sherlock. You can take the tube, just as you do every day.”

Sherlock sighs. He places his hand on John's knee under the table, and John jumps in surprise. He slowly relaxes into the touch, sending Sherlock a little grin.

Mycroft watches the exchange and makes a disgusted noise before excusing himself from the table. As he wanders away, he mutters something about randy teenagers.

–

They hold hands on the way to the tube, but they have to break apart once they reach the station. The car is crowded this morning and John gives up his seat to a little old woman who compliments him on being such a polite young man. He leans against Sherlock, who grasps a handle overhead.

“I wish we could do this every morning,” John says. He bites his lip as soon as the words leaves his mouth—it's too soon, they've only been dating a few weeks, he's going to freak out Sherlock with how committed he already is to their burgeoning relationship—

They reach their stop; the doors slide open. On his way out, Sherlock replies, “Maybe one day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments (both here and on tumblr) and all the kudos. It means so much to me, really. :)


	18. Doing something together

The next week flies by with barely any contact between them. John sees Sherlock at school, and he convinces the other boy to come over once for dinner (Harry spends the entire time trying to get Sherlock to judge another costume contest), but that is as much time as they manage to spend together. John is behind on revisions, what with exams coming up before the winter holiday, and he spends his evenings cramming. Out of politeness, he asks Sherlock if he wants to study, but he's relieved when Sherlock refuses. It's hard enough to concentrate without his very attractive boyfriend lounging about his room being very attractive.

Plus, John knows that his is the only grade that would suffer in that situation. Sherlock's mind is incredible, and when he tries he can learn just about anything. Once, earlier in the year, he had watched Sherlock pick up his never-opened history text, skim the chapter they were being quizzed on that afternoon, and get a perfect score. Later that day, Sherlock claimed to have 'deleted' all the information, having decided it wasn't important eough to commit it to his long term memory.

It's impressive, of course, but it's also frustrating. It's difficult not to be jealous of Sherlock's mind. All John has ever wanted is to be a doctor, but he can't afford to go to university without top marks. He's worked his arse off for as long as he can remember, and he gets grades that reflect that commitment; Sherlock, on the other hand, can glance at a text for all of three minutes and still do better than John. He is _that_ brilliant.

Sometimes he wonders why Sherlock even likes him at all.

His exams are difficult, but the extra time spent studying pays off. He won't find out his marks until after they go back to school, but John feels confident. He has a good grasp of the material, and he spent every waking moment for the past week with his nose stuck in a book. It's been a long and difficult week, but he thinks he did well.

So, it is not wonder that when John wakes up the first Saturday of winter holiday, his first thought is: _finally_.

Without even rolling out of bed, he reaches for his phone. He thumbs out a quick message.

_Do you have plans today?_

The reply is immediate. _Nothing pressing. Why, have an idea? SH_

He doesn't, really. If Sherlock comes over to his, Harry will harass them to play with her, or John's parents with hover and ask embarrassing questions because they think it's “adorable” to do so (it isn't). Going over to Sherlock's is out of the question, as well, as his parents have recently returned home. True, John's managed to avoid them throughout the duration of his friendship with Sherlock, but he has terrible luck. He knows he'd bump into one of them, and just like that, he'd give everything away. He doesn't think he could plausibly deny how he feels for their son; Sherlock is always telling him he's a terrible liar.

Unfortunately, most other normal “date” activities are unappealing. John does not want to go to the cinema; he and Sherlock tried to do that once, months ago, and it was a horrendous mistake. Sherlock had figured out the plot within the first two minutes and had decided it was kindest to loudly announce the ending to the entire audience in order to “save them some time.” They still aren't allowed back to that theatre.

They could go out to eat, John figures, but he isn't particularly hungry and Sherlock never eats unless he is about to collapse from exhaustion.

He huffs out a sigh. He wants to do something, though—just the two of them, together. Maybe...

_Ever been to the Eye?_

_It's for tourists, John. SH_

That is undeniably true. John went there once on a school trip when he was a child, and he's never been back since.

_I'm bored. Meet me there in an hour?_

_God. SH_

John assumes that that is Sherlock's way of saying 'yes.'

–

Forty-five minutes later, he takes the Waterloo line to the Eye. When he hops off and runs up the stairs to the street, Sherlock is there waiting for him. At John's surprise, he waves a hand. “Oh, come on. It was obvious that you were going to come this way.”

John shrugs. “If you say so.”

They walk side by side toward the ferris wheel, arms knocking together when they get a bit too close. John feels Sherlock's fingers brush deliberately against his own. Sherlock is wearing his leather gloves, the same ones he had on when the pair of them tried to outrun Anderson's gang all those weeks ago.

“Is it alright if I...?” Sherlock doesn't finish the question, but looks down at John with big, tentative eyes. It hits John: Sherlock Holmes wants to hold his hand. In public.

True, they held hands in House of Fraser, but that was only for a minute. John's mum had just been remarkably nice about the whole 'my-son-is-dating-a-boy' thing, and it had felt _right_. Not that it feels wrong now, of course, because it doesn't—but it _does_ feel different. This is in front of all of London! Anyone could see—hell, they could run into someone from school. And then everyone would know that John...

It's not that he's ashamed of dating a boy, or ashamed of Sherlock, but it's hard. It's hard to be honest about something of this magnitude when he knows it's going to create judgment and ire and, well, he's just not ready for that yet. He doesn't want to be the recipient of someone else's disdain for something he treasures so much.

In the two seconds John allows himself to consider all of this, however, Sherlock apparently reads his every thought and moves a step further away. “Nevermind.”

“No, Sherlock, I--”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says. He rolls his eyes at John's concern. “No, really. It's fine. There's not a timetable for telling others about this. I'm not upset.”

“You're sure?” John edges a bit closer and relaxes when Sherlock does not pull away. “Because I'm not ashamed, and I don't mind--”

The Eye comes into view. The queue is long, but not impossible. It's Saturday, one of the busier day for these kinds of tourist attractions, but it's also winter, so there are decidedly less tourists. Sherlock interrupts John as they join the back of the queue.

“You're not ashamed, I know, but you _do_ mind.” Sherlock ignores John's look of surprise. “No one wants to be the subject of other people's awkward gawking and censure. This is new, you need time to adjust. You'll come round. I will wait.”

John tries not to gape. “You hate waiting.”

“I didn't say I'll enjoy it, just that I will.”

The queue moves forward, and so do they. Neither of them says much, but they stand a little closer than is probably socially acceptable.

When they get to the ticket counter, Sherlock lies and says they're both fifteen so that they can get the reduced kid's price. The cashier looks skeptical, but she gives them the cheaper tickets, anyway, and the pair of them get put into one of the giant, egg-shaped capsules with several other people.

The ride is slow. John strains to remember how long it takes to complete one rotation. He thinks it should be about a half hour. They move to the window and look out at London; each turn of the wheel brings them a little higher, so that they can see a little farther. The Houses of Parliament wink at them from below.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” John says, clutching the rail beneath the window with both hands. “I know you think it's silly.”

Sherlock knocks his shoulder against John's. “It is silly. You think so, too.”

“Yeah, I do.” The cart lurches, and they go a little higher into the air. “But I wanted to do something, just us. I, er,” he flushes a bit, “I missed you, this past week. I barely got to see you.”

Slowly, he reaches out and covers Sherlock's hand on the rail. It's not quite as public; they're standing close enough so that anyone glancing around would only see two friends next to each other, looking out at the city below. It's something, though. The taller boy goes a little pink, as well.

“The first ferris wheel ever built was created in 1893 for the World's Fair in the city of Chicago in the United States,” Sherlock blurts, his thumb hooking around John's hand and rubbing lightly. “They weren't sure it was going to work, but it did, and it turned out to biggest draw of the entire fair.”

“That's...interesting,” John says. And it is, he's just not sure why Sherlock is telling him this, or even why Sherlock _knows_ this. His boyfriend regularly deletes things he considers irrelevant; John nearly had a conniption when Sherlock told him he knew nothing about the solar system. So why, of all information, would Sherlock keep up tabs on ferris wheels?

“All those people, John, from all around the world. Coming to Chicago. They needed a place to stay. So this man, HH Holmes, he built an enormous hotel. They say it was the size of a city block.” Sherlock's tone takes on a note of wonder.

“It doesn't exist any longer?”

“Demolished in the late 1930's. It was called Holmes' 'Murder Castle.' He had the entire thing rigged up to kill people—soundproof rooms fitted with gaslines, chutes that deposited the bodies into the basement where he could dissect them. Unsuspecting tourists would go there for the great fair, to see the beautiful new invention, the ferris wheel, and they never left.” Sherlock clears his throat. “He was America's first serial killer.”

John stares up at Sherlock, who refuses to look at him. His eyes are trained onto London below; his city, Sherlock often calls it. Sherlock loves London more than aything, and John thinks he's brilliant and fascinating and maybe a little bit dangerous. Maybe more than little bit.

John swallows. “So, runs in the family, then?”

“What?”

“The murder thing. You said his name was Holmes.”

Sherlock furrows his brow and glares. “Holmes was an adopted name. His original surname was Mudgett. You know, just because I find these things interesting doesn't mean that I would--” he finally looks at John, who is smiling, “Oh, you're teasing me.”

John squeezes Sherlock's hand. “Yep.”

The smile Sherlock gives him is small and fleeting, but genuine. “No one teases me.”

“Except for me.”

“Except for you.”

The pull is there; it's always there, honestly, but John feels it so intensely right now that he stops thinking about everyone else on the capsule and focuses just on Sherlock and Sherlock's lips and the way the other boy seems to be leaning down at the same time John is rising onto his toes and—

His ringtone blares. Everyone else on the capsule turns and stares and the two boys break apart.

John mutters an apology. He unlocks his mobile and presses it to his ear. “What, Mum?”

When he looks up at Sherlock, he's gone wide-eyed and stark white. Swallowing thickly, he says, “Alright. Alright, I'll be home as soon as I can,” and then rings off.

Pale and shocked, John stares out at London from the top of the Eye. “My aunt just died.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) whose advice was truly invaluable for both this and the upcoming chapter!
> 
> This story just broke 100 kudos, which is kind of insane. Thank you all so, so much. Your feedback, concrit, and kind words are appreciated more than you know!
> 
> If you follow me on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com), I recently posted the ideas I have for upcoming stories I plan to pursue once I've completed this challenge. I'd love to get some feedback on them, if you have the time!


	19. In formal wear

John hates his suit. The wool is itchy and heavy, and every time he moves he feels like his collared shirt is choking him. His parents offered to host a “life celebration” after the funeral, so the entirety of his father's side of the family is clogging up his home, all of them bearing casseroles and sad feelings. Nevermind the fact that everyone thought her a family embarrassment during her life—now that Aunt Sue is gone, they are all sad.  Great-uncle Milton keeps sharing the same story of taking her horseback riding as a child (“never saw a more natural rider!” he proclaims to anyone who will listen).

John is upset, too. He has the last of the birthday cards he got from Susan tucked into the pocket on the inside of his jacket. Her scrawl is shaky to the point of being illegible, but she congratulates him on his excellent grades and tells him she hopes he'll be a doctor, just like he's always wanted. He can't remember ever telling Sue about his aspiration to study medicine, and now that she's gone, he hates that he can't ask her how she knew. She must have talked to someone—probably his dad, her brother. She must have asked about him.

She must have cared.

He feels rotten that she's gone, but he feels worse that he only cares now that it's too late.

His parents are dealing with the same guilt, he thinks. His dad and Sue hadn't gotten along for most of John's life, but he  and his mum had jumped at the chance to host a party honoring her. He thinks of his mother, confiding to him in the kitchen that she didn't feel much of anything for her sister-in-law anymore. And now? She's in black like the other mourners, offering finger foods and sympathetic smiles.

He wants to stand and announce to the room that every person here in a hypocrite. Including himself, of course. He's not off the hook.

John sits in the corner of the couch and glares at everyone who dares to come near him. The only one who tries is Harry, who is used to his glares and therefore ignores them. Mrs. Watson put her in a frilly black dress; Harry's had it on for maybe five hours, and the hem is already torn and she's spilt macaroni and cheese down the front.

She never met Sue, of course. His parents kept her away from their aunt, and therefore Sue's passing means very little to his sister. She knows better than to let that show, however, and has been quiet since the funeral ended and everyone showed up at their house. Now, she hoists herself onto the couch next to John, exhaling loudly through her nose.

“Was Aunt Susan nice, Johnny?” she asks, kicking her feet.

“I don't really know. I hadn't seen her for a very long time.”

“I heard Uncle Henry's girlfriend say she was a drunk.”

John blanches.  It’s a funeral, for God’s sake. 

“Helen?” When Harry nods, John leans in close.  “Well, let me tell you something.  Aunt Sue may have been a drunk, but Helen’s a bitch.”

Harry gasps and then breaks into a wide grin.  “You _swore_.  You said a bad word!”

“Yep.  And it’s just between you and me, okay?  Our little secret.”

His little sister nods solemnly.  She loves secrets.

\--

He and Harry are still sitting side-by-side on the couch when Mrs. Watson finds them.  She approaches them from behind and ruffles John’s hair to announce her presence.  He ducks his head away as he turns around.

“Sherlock’s here,” she tells him, worrying her bottom lip.  “You didn’t mention you’d invited him.”

John frowns.  “I’ve barely talked to him in the past four days, what with everything that’s been going on.  I didn’t know he was coming.”

“Well, why don’t you take him to your room?  He did that thing of his—you know, the trick where he knows everything?”

“Deduction.”

“Right.  Well, he ran into Helen before I found him and now I really, really think you should take him to your room.”  She hesitates. “I’ll let you know when Helen and Henry clear out.”

“That bad, huh?” John fights a fond smile.  It is probably not good to be so amused by Sherlock’s antics, but the past few days have been rough and he doesn’t like Helen—he will take what he can.  “Where is he?”

Mrs. Watson points toward the front door, and John hops off the couch.  Behind him, he can hear Harry whinging that she wants to hang out with the boys, too, but he knows his mum will not let that happen.  He practically runs to the front door; their contact has been limited since they got off the Eye days and days ago, and he’s missed Sherlock more than he even realised.

Hovering in the front hallway, his boyfriend is dressed in a suit (note to self, John thinks, Sherlock should always wear suits) and bearing the brunt of Helen’s abuse, completely stone-faced.  She’s just working herself up to threatening to sue when John steps in, giving her a tight smile.

“Hi, Helen.  Sorry to bother you, but I need to borrow Sherlock.” He grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls him away from Uncle Henry’s girlfriend, who gives John her most affronted expression.  He has never understand what his Uncle sees in this woman.  She’s pretty enough, with big brown eyes and dark hair, but she wears far too many pastels and seems to have a stick permanently lodged up her bum.  She narrows her eyes at them.

“I didn’t realise you were like _that_ , John,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

For a moment, John considers stopping and asking her to clarify just what she means.  He considers starting a scene, yelling at her, commanding her to leave his house and never come back.  He can see Sherlock from the corner of his eye, and it looks like he is thinking the same things.  Instead, John takes a deep breath.

“And I didn’t realise you were rude enough to talk badly about a woman at her own funeral.  Especially in front of an impressionable eight year old girl.  Harry heard what you said about Aunt Sue being a drunk.”  John stands his ground, Sherlock’s hand still in his.

Helen has the decency to look embarrassed.  “Well, she  _was_.”

“And now she’s dead, so have some courtesy,” John rolls his eyes. “Excuse us.”

He tugs Sherlock down the hall, through the living room, and into his own room.  It feels as though every pair of eyes at the party follows them, but John refuses to give anyone the satisfaction of looking ashamed.  He slams his bedroom door closed behind them, then walks straight to his bed and falls forward onto it.

“I hate everything,” John announces to his duvet.  His voice sounds muffled.

From behind him, at the door, Sherlock says, “John?”

Without looking up, John motions Sherlock closer.  He feels the bed dip as his boyfriend sits, and then again as Sherlock stretches out beside him.  There’s the brush of fingers in his hair.  For the first time in days, John feels like he can breathe.  He rolls onto his right side so that he and Sherlock are facing each other.

“Sorry I made a scene,” he says, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock smirks.  “I made one first.”

“True, you berk.”

At that, Sherlock grasps the hand at his side and tangles their fingers, bringing John’s to his lips briefly.  “That woman is heinous.  She wouldn’t stop talking to me from the moment I walked in, and I just sort of…”

“Tried to get rid of her the way you get rid of everyone?”

“That,” Sherlock sniffs, “is not the most flattering description of deduction.”

John squeezes the hand in his.  “You use deduction as a security blanket.” Sherlock opens his mouth to object, so John plunders on, “It’s fine, you know.  People are idiots, and they don’t understand you.  I don’t care about that, just so long as you don’t ever use it to keep me at a distance.”

They fall into silence.  John flips so that his back is to Sherlock and revels in the moment that Sherlock scoots closer and presses up against him.  He feels lips on the back of his neck.

“Do you want to talk about your aunt?” Sherlock murmurs.  John can tell that Sherlock is asking because he thinks he ought to rather than from any desire to help John work out his feelings. 

He still asked, though, and that is good enough.  Sherlock will never be the foremost expert on feelings--at least he tries. “I don’t know.  I mean, I hadn’t seen her in ten years.  I’m not even—I’m not even upset, at least not like I would be if any of my other aunts and uncles died.  I mostly feel…guilty.”  He thinks of the birthday card inside his jacket.  “Like, we all ignored her for so long, and now we throw this party like it makes up for it, and…”

“Did she deliberately take the pills and alcohol together?”

John pushes away, his jaw dropping.  “You can’t—God, Sherlock, you can’t _ask_ something like that.”

Sherlock blinks.  “Why not?”

“Because she was my aunt, and now she’s dead, and I’m…” his voice trails off.  John doesn’t know how to finish the sentence—he doesn’t know what he is.  He’s not okay, but it sounds stupid and juvenile to say that.

“I was curious,” Sherlock replies, by way of explanation.  “She’d recently been in an accident, was facing a lot of legal and financial trouble, and then she took pills while drinking a litre of vodka.  It would seem likely that she was trying to ki—“

John backs away from him.  He hasn’t cried once over Aunt Sue; he didn’t know her well enough to feel the need.  Now, however, hot tears push against the backs of his eyes.  “Stop.  Please, okay?  Please stop.”

“Oh,” Sherlock’s brow furrows and he reaches out, flinching when John evades his touch, “I’ve upset you.”

“Of course you have!  Do you—I mean, she just _died_.  I saw them put her casket in the ground less than two hours ago.  Why would you say that to me?”  John presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “That’s the worst thing you could have said.”

Sherlock’s sounds lost, his voice small.  “I thought it might comfort you to talk about her passing.”

“Not like that!  Not by—Jesus.  I don’t know.  I don’t really want to talk anymore.”

“Then we don’t have to,” Sherlock says urgently.

“No, I mean,” John sighs, stares down at his duvet, “I think I want to be alone right now.  Do you—I mean, I’ll walk you out, but then I want to be alone.  And I’ll call you later, okay?”

“But I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

John can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, practically burning holes through his skull.  He doesn’t look up; if he does, he knows he’ll see sad eyes and a pouty mouth and he’ll let it go.  He doesn’t want to let it go, not just yet.

“I know you don’t,” John tells him, still avoiding his gaze.  “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

Sherlock backs off the bed.  “Don’t bother.  I think I can remember the way on my own.”

“Sherlock—”

But by the time his name has left John's mouth, Sherlock has let himself out and closed the door behind him.  John doesn’t hear any shouting, so he figures the other boy made it out of the party without running into Helen.

He curls up on his bed and tries to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't fret, dears. It will get better soon.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and hello to all my new subscribers! :)


	20. Dancing

Harry wakes John up the next morning by throwing something at his head and then jumping on his bed.

“Get up!” She screeches in his ear as she bounces on her knees. “Mum and Dad are driving Aunt Nancy to the airport, so someone has to watch me.”

John groans and feels around blindly for the object that just ricocheted off his skull. It’s fallen next to him on the pillow, and he stares at it, still bleary with sleep. “Did you throw _Singin’ in the Rain_ at me?”

“It’s raining!” she says, by way of explanation.

“Oh, God. I thought you grew out of this phase.”

When she’d been five, Harry had gone through a period where every single time it rained, the Watsons had to watch _Singin’ in the Rain_. They live in _London_. John knows every single word in this film. He imagines he could probably do the entire “Make ‘em laugh” sequence if he were in better shape.

Best not to let Harry know that, however. She would wake him up every morning before dawn to work out so that she could watch him run up a wall.

His little sister continues to bounce on his bed. “C’mon, Johnny. We haven’t watched it in forever.”

With a sigh, he rubs a hand across his face. “Fine. Are Mum and Dad still here?”

“Getting ready, I think.”

“Okay. Go get this set up,” he hands the DVD back to her, “and I’ll be there in a minute. I want to say goodbye to Nancy.”

Harry bounds out of the room, already alight with energy even though it’s only—John glances at his clock and grimaces—half nine in the morning. She’s on holiday, too; why can’t she sleep in like every other kid?

Pulling on some jeans and the shirt he was wearing two days ago, John shoves his phone into his pocket and heads out to the kitchen. His parents are on either side of the table, sipping coffee and reading different sections of the paper. Aunt Nancy is rummaging through her purse at the counter, her case standing by her feet. She gives John a tight smile when she notices him; they don’t see each other often, as Nancy has lived in France for the past five years, but she’d patted him on the back last night after he’d finally emerged from his room for his verbal takedown of Helen. He’s glad that he’s not the only one in the family that detests Henry’s girlfriend.

“Morning,” his dad says, finishing off his coffee, “Did Harry tell you about watching her for the morning?”

John rolls his eyes. “Not until after she threw a DVD at my head, but yeah.”

Mr. Watson tries to look sympathetic, but he mostly comes off amused. “Thanks for being such a big help, John. I know the past few days have been rough for you.” There’s a loaded pause, then: “You can invite Sherlock over, if you want.”

John grabs the bread from the cupboard for toast. “Maybe.”

“Did you two have a fight?” asks Aunt Nancy.

Discussing his love life with random family members he sees once every couple years is not high on the list of things John wants to do this morning. He ignores the question and waits for his toast. When it pops up, he decides to eat it dry. He heads back toward the living room when his mum catches his wrist.

“We’re leaving in two minutes, and I don’t think that’s how you want to say goodbye to Nancy,” she says, her tone careful, “Also, invite Sherlock over, patch up whatever misunderstanding you two had. You’ve been unbearable since last night.”

“Thanks, Mum,” John rolls his eyes.

“I mean it. Now, apologize to your aunt, say goodbye to us, call your boyfriend, and spend time with your sister. In that order.”

They glare at each other for a moment. John knows he hasn’t been the most pleasant person to be around since the funeral, but he hates being treated like a child. His mother is giving him her sternest look, however; her jaw is set, her eyes are hard. He heaves a sigh and then turns to his aunt.

“I’m sorry I was rude. I haven’t been in the best mood, what with everything that’s been going on. I hope you have a good flight back to Paris, Nancy,” he fishes around inside his trouser pocket and produces his mobile, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I apparently have to call Sherlock and watch _Singin’ in the Rain_ for the thousandth time.”

Mr. Watson grimaces. “Is she back on that again?”

“Apparently.”

His mum’s grip on his wrist turns gentle and she pats his arm lightly. “Thank you. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

“Alright,” he says, and because John can’t stay mad at his mother, he dips down and places a dutiful kiss on her cheek before going out to the living room, where Harry has already started the movie and humming along to “Fit as a Fiddle.”

\--

_Come over? We need to talk._

_Be there in a half hour. SH_

\--

Sherlock doesn’t show up closer to forty-five minutes. Harry conked out sometime after Don jumped into a stranger’s car to escape his crowd of fans; he knew that getting up early while on winter hols was unnatural. She is asleep and resting against John’s side when Sherlock lets himself in. He slides into the empty chair that John’s dad usually uses.

Sherlock looks a mess—his hair is frizzy and unkempt due to the rain, and he has dark circles under his eyes like he didn’t sleep well. He’s back in his street clothes, and John finds he misses the suit.

“Hey,” John says weakly. He motions at Harry. “Sorry about her. She insisted on this movie and then passed out on me so that I can’t change it.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock watches him, eyes intense. “Are you breaking up with me?”

John blinks. “What?”

From his coat pocket, Sherlock produces his phone. He flips it around so John can see the screen. “You said ‘we need to talk.’ I’ve been led to believe that is not a good sign. That, plus you look generally unhappy—If you’re breaking up with me, I want to know right now, and don’t you dare sugarcoat it.”

“I’m not,” John says quickly. Perhaps too quickly, as Sherlock looks more skeptical than reassured. “I’m really not. That was—I just wrote that without thinking, I guess. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

In the other seat, Sherlock sits straight-backed with his eyes cast down. He fiddles with the phone in his hands. “But you’re still angry with me.”

“I’m—“

“I can tell, John. Your first is clenched, your brow is furrowed, you—“

“Alright, alright. Stop it. Yes, I am angry,” John grabs the remote with the hand that Harry doesn’t have pinned and turns down the volume on the telly. “I just don’t understand why you would say those things to me. I know you don’t deal much with emotions—“ he ignores Sherlock’s snort, “but _Sherlock_! She’s just died. I can’t…”

Sherlock yanks at his hair, but keeps his voice low so as not to disturb Harry. “I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t realise that would be an upsetting line of conversation, and—“

“But that’s my point! How could you not realise? How could you think I’d want to discuss…” John gulps, “ _that_ possibility?”

“Because it’s not a possibility, it's fact! It’s a fact that she’d just got in trouble with the law again, and that she’d had to go to your parents, and that she died of a fatal mix of prescription pills and alcohol in her system. They are real and solid and tangible _facts_ , and those are what make me feel better. Knowledge makes me feel better. Proof and data and discovering the truth make me feel better!” He pants and looks like a wild animal trapped in an antique armchair. “We can know what happened to her and why she did what she did and then we can understand her and _that is comforting_.”

Harry stirs against him. “Sh’lock? Johnny?”

“Go back to sleep, Harry,” John says, relieved when she seems to follow that suggestion immediately.

Both boys go quiet for a moment. On screen, Don and Cosmo sing about how Moses supposes his toeses are roses. They perform a complicated tap dance that he and Sherlock watch without watching.  
As they sing out the final note, John blurts, “You were trying to comfort me about my aunt’s death by starting a dialogue on whether or not she killed herself.”

Sherlock brings his legs onto the chair and rests his forehead against his knees. “In hindsight, I can see it wasn’t my best plan.”

He looks so defeated, curled into a little ball and avoiding eye contact. John is flooded with guilt; Sherlock had been trying to handle the situation the only way he knew how. He knows the way the other boy relies on fact more than emotion. Emotions are messy, illogical. They complicate cases, create facets in right and wrong, black and white. No wonder Sherlock turns to fact when confronted with his feelings—his own or anyone else’s.

“For the record, that’s not the way I like to be comforted.”

Even though John can’t see his face, he knows Sherlock is rolling his eyes. “Yes, I did deduce that.”

“You’ll know better, for next time,” John swallows down the lump in his throat, “and now I know how to comfort you. So. At least this was a productive fight.”

When Sherlock looks up, he looks wary. “’Next time?’”

John carefully moves Harry, who grumbles sleepily but doesn’t fully awaken. He pats the empty space to his right on the couch. “I told you I wasn’t breaking up with you, idiot.”

Something small touches the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he moves carefully to the couch and inserts himself in the empty space by the armrest. John leans against him, Harry following him. He turns his head and kisses Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I got upset,” he says.

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

John yawns. “I might fall asleep. Do you care if I leave the movie on?”

“I can change it.” Sherlock tells him, reaching up to brush John’s hair away from his eyes.

“You’ll wake us.”

“I won’t.”

\--

John wakes up an hour later to find that Sherlock managed to switch out the movie for _Lawrence of Arabia_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally cheated on this prompt, I know, but I couldn't think of a way to make the boys dance and have it seem in character--especially since a member of John's family just died and they had their first proper fight.
> 
> 2/3 done with this project--that means only 10 chapters to go! I can hardly believe it. Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> If you're curious about the clips from _Singin' in the Rain_ , here they are. Be prepared to have the pants charmed right off of you. :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Make 'em laugh](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SND3v0i9uhE)  
> [Fit as a Fiddle](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B--PqOHeVLY)  
> [Moses Supposes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFW-_QEHTws)
> 
>  
> 
> Please let me know what you thought in the comments here or at my [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/).


	21. Baking

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?”

“Because,” John grins, “you look really cute in an apron.”

And he does.  As soon as the boys had wandered into the kitchen and declared their intent to bake biscuits, Anna had bustled around, making sure they had everything they needed. She'd laid out all the ingredients for them, her own recipe book, and a pair of aprons. Sherlock had tried to protest that last thing, but Anna had declared that she would not be patching “yet another pair of Mr. Sherlock’s trousers.”  At that, Sherlock had turned bright red and muttered something about the importance of his experiments—then he'd grabbed an apron and put it on.

Now, he’s wearing dark jeans and a button down and an apron that declares someone ought to “Kiss the Cook.” John would not mind doing that; Sherlock looks properly adorable.

He glares at John, but it’s playful.  He just manages to fight back a smile.  “I am fairly certain that’s not the reason.”

“Well, there’s also something about tomorrow being my little sister’s birthday, and that sob story that she sold you after she woke up two days ago…”

Sherlock pokes at the bag of flour on the counter.  “Well, Christmas eve _is_ a terrible birthday.  She only ever gets presents for one day, despite the fact that—“

“Oh my God.  Sherlock.  Stop.”

“What?” asks Sherlock, freezing.

“You are baking Harriet biscuits and worrying about her not getting enough presents and wearing an apron, all at the same time, and it's just...it’s too much, I can’t—“ John breaks up into laughter.  He dodges away as Sherlock surges forward; he nearly makes it to the table, but the other boy has longer limbs and catches him at the edge of the cabinets. His arms go on either side of John, pinning him back against the counter.

He leans into John’s space.  “You were saying?”

John swallows, but his throat is still dry.  “You’re not fighting fair.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock presses a chaste kiss to his forehead and then backs away, smirking, “Whatever made you think I would?”

Without missing a beat, Sherlock turns back to the ingredients and picks up Anna’s recipe book.  He runs his finger down the page.  “I’ll whisk the flour and baking soda together if you preheat the oven.”

John takes in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly.  He laughs a bit as the last of the air leaves his lungs.  “Tease,” he accuses, lightly.

“Yep,” Sherlock says, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

Nevertheless, John fiddles with the knobs on the oven and then steals the cook book. Glancing over the instructions, he grabs the sugar and butter and dumps them into a bowl. He briefly wonders what the recipe means when it says that the combination should look “fluffy.” He stirs it quickly with a wooden spoon and watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

It's sweet, that Sherlock wanted to do this. Harry's always complained about her winter birthday; when she was six, he caught her praying for Jesus to have his birthday in some other month because she was tired of sharing (he already plans to tell that story to every person she ever dates). Sherlock has apparently suffered similarly. After Harry had declared them boring and wandered off to entertain herself, he'd confided in John that his family had never really celebrated his birthday, always citing its close proximity to Christmas.

“We should do something for her,” he'd said. When he'd learned that his parents had decided to take a day trip to do some last minute Christmas shopping, he'd then volunteered his kitchen so that they could bake her biscuits as a surprise. 

Well, more accurately: he'd volunteered Anna to bake them biscuits to give to Harry, and John had told him that if he wanted Harry to have biscuits so bad, he had to bake them himself.

He'd expected that to be more of a deterrent, honestly.

Sherlock dumps his bowl into John's and takes over stirring. About thirty seconds later, he hands that duty back to John, complaining that his arm is tired. Instead, he lays parchment paper over a cookie sheet and then fiddles with his phone.

“I could use some help,” John grouses, “My arm hurts, too, you know.”

Sherlock abandons his mobile on the counter and then stands next to John, watching the batter become smoother and smoother. “You're doing an excellent job.”

John is instantly suspicious; Sherlock _never_ compliments him. “What?”

“I'm helping by giving you emotional support.”

John wrinkles his nose. “Or, are you? Thanks ever so.”

Ignoring John's tone, Sherlock dips his finger into the batter, fishes out a sticky clump, and then pops it into his mouth. He smacks his lips and swallows. “That's actually rather good.” He dips his finger back in and holds it out to John. “Here, try it.”

John blinks up at the other boy and watches the realisation dawn on Sherlock's face. It's not like the ice cream; he didn't plan this moment, this was not mean to be a seduction technique. The complete lack of artifice is written all over the flush creeping up the taller boy's neck. Dropping the spoon against the side of the bowl, John reaches out and grabs Sherlock's wrist and tugs his hand closer. Slowly, so slowly, he dips his head down and runs his tongue up the length of Sherlock's finger, sucking the batter into his mouth.

Sherlock's gesture was innocent; John's is decidedly _not_.

Also, the batter really _is_ rather good.

On the counter, Sherlock's phone vibrates. They both jump at the sound, and then share an awkward laugh as they calm down.

“We,” Sherlock's voice cracks and he clears his throat, “We should get these in the oven.”

John nods. “Okay.”

They each grab a spoon and ladle out biscuit-sized portions onto a tray. John's left elbow knocks against Sherlock's right, and they turn it into a playful war, each one scrambling to fill up the baking sheet. Their effort ends up looking a bit haphazard, and John nearly yells at Sherlock when the idiot goes to put the sheet in the oven without first putting on oven mitt, but they finally manage to get the biscuits in to bake.

As soon as the door is closed, Sherlock tosses the mitt away, pushes John back against the counter, and mutters, “Finally!”

He dives down to capture John's lips, his tongue running across the lower one, encouraging John to open his mouth. John reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hips, pulling him in so that their bodies are flush. They both groan at the contact.

John pulls back, nipping a bit at Sherlock's mouth. “You taste like batter.” He trails kisses down the other boy's jaw. “I—Sherlock, do you even know?”

Sherlock's head is thrown back to give John access to his neck. “Know what?” he pants.

“What you do to me,” John places a kiss on his pulse point, suckles lightly, “How I feel about you.”

“John,” Sherlock's voice comes out strangled as he snaps his head down very quickly, searching out John's eyes, “John, I--”

“So, Sherlock,” a male voice says from the doorway, “is this one a little drug addict, as well?”

The boys spring apart. Leaning against the jamb is a man in an exquisitely tailored suit. His hair is short and dark, but he has eyes like Sherlock's: almond shaped, and in the same unidentifiable colour. His arms are crossed, and he has one brow arched cooly in a way that makes John think of Mycroft.

It's easy enough to deduce who he is.

“Sir,” John says, stepping forward and extending a palm, “My name is John Watson, and--”

Sherlock grabs his arm and drags him back. “Shut up, John.”

“No, no,” says Mr. Holmes, all easy grace, “Let him continue. He's a marvelous improvement over that little slimeball you used to bring round. What was his name? Sebastian?”

“You know that's his name,” Sherlock replies, his voice tight. He has not relinquished his death grip on John's arm. “And I've barely talked to him in months. I told you that.”

Mr. Holmes pushes himself away from the door frame and takes a few steps into the kitchen. “I'm aware. I'm also aware that you did a favour for that brother of his—you know, the drug dealer— a few weeks ago. When will you learn? You can't hide things from me.” He nods toward John. “Case in point.”

John twists away from Sherlock and walks determinedly across the room. In front of Mr. Holmes, he holds out his hand again. “Sir, this isn't how I would have liked to have met you, but...well. Your son and I, we—“

“Were recently trying to lick each other's tonsils?” Sherlock's dad looks down at the offered hand but makes no move to take it. “I figured that one out on my own, believe it or not. Or I suppose I—what's the word you use for it, Sherlock? 'Deducted' it?”

“Deduced,” Sherlock corrects, his voice hoarse.

“Ah, yes. You know, I was wondering who Mycroft was texting so urgently when I told him I needed to stop by the house. I'm surprised you told him.”

Sherlock frowns. “I didn't. He just found out.”

“Well, then you should really be more careful,” With a world weary sigh, Mr. Holmes retreats a few steps back toward the doorway. “Listen, John. I'm not sure what kind of portrait Sherlock has painted of me, but I'm not an unreasonable man. I want to get to know you better. Why don't you come by tomorrow evening for Christmas eve dinner?”

That's Harry's birthday dinner. His mum and dad try to make it a big deal every year. Harry will never forgive him if he misses it.

He and Sherlock answer at the same time: John with a “Sounds great,” and Sherlock with a vehement “ _No_.”

“Bit rude, son,” Mr. Holmes says, tutting. “Dinner will be served at 5:30 PM sharp. We tend to be a bit formal, but just try your best.”

John ignores the slight. “Alright.”

At that, Sherlock's father gives a false smile and turns on his heel. “Lovely to meet you, John. Sherlock, your mother and I will be back for tea, so do try to have this mess cleaned up by then.” On his way into the hall, they hear him snort out: “Honestly, baking _biscuits_?”

As soon as Mr. Holmes has disappeared from sight, Sherlock grabs John's arm, spinning him around so that they're facing each other. “Are you _insane_?”

“What?”

“My family, John! You just agreed to dinner with my family!” He scrubs at his face. “They're going to destroy you.”

John reaches up to touch Sherlock's face, who ducks away. It hurts. “I'm not afraid of your parents.”

“Maybe not, but you should be! My father is an extremely powerful man who does not approve of homosexuality _or me_. It's like—like having a bleeding wound and then going for a swim near a shark. Several sharks, in fact. Several sharks who are all brilliant and cunning and cold and very, very hungry.”

“Sherlock,” This time, John successfully grabs Sherlock's upper arms. He shakes him out of his panic. “Listen to me, okay? They were always going to find out. This was always an inevitability. I don't want to be secreted away forever. I meant what I said. I care about you. And if that means getting eaten alive by sharks for you, then okay.”

Sherlock's eyes rove over his face. “You can't just say 'okay' to that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you—” Sherlock cuts himself off, blanches. “Dammit! The biscuits!”

They both dash to the stove, John grabbing the mitt and slipping it on. Sherlock opens the door and they wince at the wave of heat that hits them as John reaches inside and grabs the baking sheet.

When he places it on the counter, all the cookies are burnt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. Fair warning. The next two prompts are:
> 
> 22 - In battle, side-by-side  
> 23 - Arguing
> 
> I guess what I'm saying is: buckle your seat belts, friends.
> 
> *ducks flying tomatoes*
> 
> As always, thanks for all the responses I got for the last chapter--and also to those of you who checked out my other stories! Definitely gave me an "aww" moment. :)
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	22. In battle, side by side

John can't decide what to wear. Everything seems wrong—his jumpers are too informal, the suit he wore to the funeral is too...funeral-y. He changes again and again, each time running out to ask his parents what they think. They're in the middle of a Christmas movie marathon on telly, and he suspects his constant intrusions are driving them round the bend. After the third time, his mum gives up on the current film and follows him back to his room. She helps him pick out his nicest button down while his dad entertains Harry in the kitchen.  

Harry is being a holy terror, although that's hardly unusual. She'd pitched a fit when John announced his plans to go to Sherlock’s instead of attending her special birthday dinner.  He hid his new coat and her scissors just in case. She's taken to glaring at him all day, ignoring the doll he got her for her birthday and refusing to touch the cookies he and Sherlock had managed to scrape together from the batter left at the bottom of the bowl after they'd ruined their first batch.

It takes John and his mother a few minutes to find an outfit upon which they can both agree, and she slips from the room so he can try it on. It's a process; John is especially careful with each piece of clothing, fearing that he'll somehow manage to wrinkle everything before he even makes it out the front door of his own house. 

Finally dressed, John surveys himself in the mirror. The blue button down is freshly pressed (thanks to his mum) and he's wearing his best trousers and a pair of leather shoes. He even put on a matching tie. When he swings open his door, his mother, hovering in the hallway outside his room, nods approvingly.

“You look very handsome,” she tells him, kissing his cheek.

He rubs at the kiss, wrinkling his nose. “Mum!”

He grabs his jacket from it's hiding space (beneath his bed), and is slipping into it when Mr. Watson catches his arm.

“C’mon, Johnny.  I’ll give you a ride.”

“What?” John asks.  “Why?”

His family rarely uses their car; it's practically moot, having a car in London, where everything is so accessible. They only keep it around in case of emergencies, and John is fairly certain that meeting his boyfriend's parents for the first time, however stressful, does not count as one.

“Man to man talk,” Mr. Watson says, tugging him out the door and down the street to where the car is parked.

As soon as they're inside and their seatbelts are buckled, John asks, “Is this about sex? Because if so, I am getting out right now. I hear enough about this from Mum.”

His dad laughs as he starts the car. “It's not, no. Has she really been doing that?”

John leans his head against the back of the seat rest. “You have no idea.”

“Well, rest assured, I am not trying to scar you for life.” Mr. Watson turns down the street and merges into heavier traffic, heading toward Knightbridge. “It is about Sherlock, though.”

“What about him?”

“Your mother mentioned something about Sherlock's parents being sort of...” he trails off.

“Pricks?” John suggests. His dad tries not to laugh and fails. “Yeah. I mean, I haven't actually met them, but Sherlock thinks they're going to be weird about him being,” he stumbles over the word, “well, you know.”

“Gay?”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I don't think he really gets along with them in the first place. The homophobia is just the icing on the cake, really.”

Mr. Watson frowns and hit his turn signal. They hang a sharp right. “Well, listen. Mum and I talked about it, and if his parents do anything stupid tonight—kick him out, or something—I want you to call us, okay? We'll come get both of you.”

John can almost feel his jaw hit the floor. “You'd do that?”

“He's a bit strange, your one, but we aren't about to make him sleep rough. Alright? It's just a back up plan, but...” he shrugs a bit, “we are both aware of how nervous you are, and we don't want you to have to worry about that. So, just so you know. Sherlock is always welcome.”

They're a few streets away and John signals for his dad to let him out here. It'll be easier than trying to find some place to pull over in front of the Holmes residence. He hesitates before opening his door.

“Thanks, Dad.”

His father reaches out and punches his shoulder. “Of course. And relax. His parents are going to love you, I'm sure. And if they don't, they're stupid.”

That sentiment comforts John much more than it ought to.

–

Richard opens the door when John knocks, but Sherlock is right behind him, dressed in a black suit with a dark purple shirt. The color creates such a pleasant contrast when put against Sherlock's pale skin that for a moment, John forgets to be nervous.

“Hi,” he says, doing his best to smile encouragingly.

Sherlock doesn't smile back. He steps into John's space and begins to fiddle with his hair, trying to get it to lay flat. John does not bother to tell him that he is fighting a losing battle. “Just...talk as little as you possibly can. If you let him engage you, he'll trap you somehow. And, god, don't start a conversation with Mummy. She's had a few Xanax, I think, so she won't be quite as sharp as usual. And for Mycroft—” Sherlock huffs out a sigh, “Just...don't talk, okay?”

“You're not helping with this whole nerves thing.”

“I'm not really trying to.”

At that, Sherlock turns on a heel and makes his way down the hall. John ducks out of his coat and hands it to Richard before scurrying off behind his boyfriend, who makes an abrupt turn into the dining room. A moment later, John bursts inside to find that everyone is standing, waiting for him.

“Er,” he says, immediately regretting that that is the first thing to leave his mouth, “Good evening, everyone. Happy Christmas. Thank you for having me.”

Mycroft nods at him. It seems a good sign. “Thank you for coming.”

The room is immaculate—walls painted a warm red, high ceilings. The table is set with an extra place next to Sherlock. Stiffly, John moves to it. Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft are seated directly across, with Mr. Holmes at the end of the table. He and his wife both have a glass of wine sitting before them; the rest of them have glasses of water. Once John is in place, Sherlock's father takes his seat and everyone follows.

“Welcome, John,” Mrs. Holmes says. Her smile is a bit distant and her hand shakes as she touches her silverware, straightening them into a perfect line. “It is good to meet you.”

“You too, Mrs. Holmes,” John nerves buzz under his skin.

“I assume you and I don't need to be reintroduced,” Mr. Holmes says without preamble. John does not need to be a detective to know that starting the evening's conversation by bringing up the embarrassing way they first met is not a good sign. The Holmes patriarch picks up his glass of wine and sniffs it before taking a delicate sip, “So, tell us about yourself, John.”

John takes a deep breath.  “What would you like to know, sir?”

Mr. Holmes nods.  “Do you hear that?  He calls me ‘sir.’  You’re more polite than my son.”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

Across the table, Mycroft hides a smile in his water glass.  Sherlock kicks John’s ankle, even as his father bursts into laughter.

“I must say, you’re a vast improvement over the last one.  That Wilkes boy is a complete twat.”

John can’t help it—Sebastian _is_ a twat, after all—and grins down at his place setting.  Two women scurry into the room carrying trays filled with bowls of soup, and they bustle about the table, placing one in front of everyone present.

Mrs. Holmes clears her throat.  “Language, dear.”

“I’m sorry, Violet, but it’s an accurate description,”  Mr. Holmes leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed.  He gestures in John’s direction.  “And look!  John seems to agree with me, at least.”

Mr. Holmes smiles at him, and John does his best to return it.  It’s difficult; for all his affability, John doesn’t exactly trust Sherlock’s father.  There’s too much tension in the air around the table—everyone is sitting ramrod straight in their chairs, avoiding eye contact with each other.  Everyone, of course, except for Mr. Holmes, who seems perfectly at ease.

John refuses to let his guard down.  Carefully, he says, “I don’t know Sebastian well, but he’s never made a good impression on me.”

“That’s excellent.  Good instincts, John.  If only Sherlock had them as well,” he huffs out a sigh and eats a spoonful of soup, “I’m sure he told you all about what I found him doing last summer.”

To his left, Sherlock goes perfectly still.  He does not look over at John; his mouth is a taut line.  John isn’t an idiot—he knows that Mr. Holmes wouldn’t bring this up if he thought John knew.  This is some sort of ploy to come between the pair of them, and it won’t work.  John is aware that _something_ happened between Sherlock and Sebastian.  Whether it was drugs-related or romantic, he does not care.  It’s not his place to judge Sherlock for his past.

But how to answer this question?  John considers saying that yes, of course Sherlock told him.  It’s obviously something important—important enough that Mr. Holmes is playing it like some kind of trump card, puffing himself up like a peacock as he ladles soup into his mouth.  But John is a cautious gambler; if he bluffs and is asked to explain, he’ll look like a fool.

He decides to casually shrug and say, “No, but if it has to do with Sebastian Wilkes, I have a few guesses.”

Mr. Holmes raises his brows at John.  “I caught that boy trying to convince Sherlock to stick a needle in his arm.”

Admittedly, that’s worse than John expected.

Spliff is one thing—they’re in high school, and he’s seen _Skins_.  It’s what teenagers do!  Sure, he wasn’t happy when he saw Sherlock smoking at that party with Sebastian, but he dealt with it.  If Sherlock had raised a fuss, he might have even turned a blind eye to the occasional high.  But needles?  He’s not even sure which drugs involve needles, but he knows they’re a lot more dangerous than pot.

John reaches for his water glass and takes a long drink.  He can feel the collective weight of the stares the Holmes family are leveling at him; somehow, Sherlock’s is the heaviest.  “Well, you obviously handled the situation.  That’s…good.  And I would never do that, I hope you know.”

“No, you obviously wouldn’t,” Mrs. Holmes cuts in, giving him a stiff smile before sending a glare in her husband's direction.  “Mycroft tells me you want to become a doctor.”

“Um, yes.  I sent in some applications for uni, but I haven’t heard back yet.  Hoping for a scholarship.”  He looks over at Sherlock, who is ghostly pale in the dim light of the dining room.  “I didn’t get into Cambridge on early decision, like some people.”

Sherlock glances to his right and gives John the barest hint of a smile.

“What will you do if university falls through?” Mr. Holmes asks, dunking his spoon into his soup.  “I understand your family is experiencing some financial burdens, especially after recently losing your aunt.  Will that have any effect on your ability to go to school next fall?”

He says it so casually that for a moment John hardly understands that he’s been insulted.  No, more than insulted— _investigated_.  How could Mr. Holmes know these private details unless he paid someone to look through the Watson's finances? 

And really, it hits too close to home. He has had his suspicions about where the money to pay for Sue’s funeral expenses came from—not to mention her unpaid legal and medical fees.  His family isn’t well off; they shouldered most of the burden because his dad was the only one who Susan would even talk to, in the end.  He’s always known that going to uni would be tough on the family budget, but neither of his parents have metioned—

And how does Mr. Holmes _know_ , anyway? Is he like Mycroft—some rather important cog in the clockwork of the British government?

Sherlock is next to him, grabbing his elbow and dragging him back down into his seat.  It’s strange—John doesn’t remember standing.  He blinks, dazed, and then finally focuses.  Sherlock leans toward him, brow furrowed, speaking low and soft; the words don’t make sense, but the tone is comforting.

John pulls back and takes a steadying breath.

“You had me investigated, sir?” he asks.

“I walked in on you groping my son,” Mr. Holmes scoffs, “of course I had you investigated.”

Both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft have the decency to look embarrassed, as John gulps, trying to process what is happening.  There are torrents of emotion running through his bloodstream: anger, terror, disgust, shame.  But there’s also: love, affection, forgiveness.  Sherlock stares at him, eyes wide and distraught, and John remembers what he said yesterday, about his family being sharks.

John disagrees.  They're not sharks. Sherlock’s family is made up of grandmaster chess players, and John picked to go against them on his very first match.  He’s outwitted and outmatched at this table; he’s never going to win by being clever.

Really, he’s probably just never going to win.  But at least he can try.

“John,” Mrs. Holmes says.  Her hand is a little shaky as she reaches for her glass of wine.  “Please, don’t worry yourself.  Siger is merely…” she waves a hand as she trails off, “intense.”

“Intensely an arsehole,” Sherlock mutters, glaring at his father, who seems content to ignore him.

Mycroft stirs across the table.  “John, Sherlock, perhaps if we—“

“It’s fine,” John says.  He can't outsmart anyone here; all he can do is be honest. “I can talk about it.”

“John—“

“No, Sherlock.  It’s fine.  I—I mean, I’m impressed, in a way, that you would go to such lengths to make me feel like an idiot.  Sherlock could have told you that it’s not nearly that difficult, saved you some time.” The entire table goes silent.  “Honestly, you seem to have a better grip on my family's financial situation than me. No one's told me how we paid for Aunt Sue's final expenses. I guess my parents held off because they wanted to see if I got a scholarship...” he sighs, “But it’s better this way.  Confirmation and all that.  I’d ask you how you found out, but Mycroft once kidnapped me off the street and interrogated me in an empty parking garage, so I guess this sort of spy stuff just runs in the family.”

Mr. Holmes sets aside his spoon.  He even manages to smile a bit.  “You’re made of sterner stuff than I expected, John.”

“Yes, well.  I do date your son, give me some credit.”  The joke falls flat, leaving Sherlock’s parents frowning.  “Anyway, I’ve wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember, so if I don’t get a big enough scholarship to go, I’ll join the army, let them pay for my schooling.”

The room goes still.  Then, Sherlock says, “ _What_?”

John frowns.  “What what?”

“You have never once told me you’re considering joining the army.”

“I haven't really told anyone. Just talked about it with the counselor at school. And anyway, we haven’t discussed our future plans much at all,” John shrugs. It's the wrong thing to do, apparently, as the other boy blanches completely.

Sherlock pushes his chair back and stands.  “Well, this has been thoroughly disastrous.  Congratulations, Father.  Excuse me.”  He stalks out of the room without another word.  Twenty seconds later, the sound of his bedroom door being slammed shut reverberates throughout the room.

Mr. Holmes smirks at him, and it's suddenly clear.

It’s astonishing, John thinks, that he didn’t see that coming.  Sherlock's father played the long game, and he just captured John’s king.

Check mate.

“Excellent,” Mr. Holmes mutters, throwing his cloth napkin at his plate.  He rubs a hand across his face. “One day we'll have a Christmas dinner where he doesn't storm out.”

Mycroft places his hands atop the table, steadying himself.  “Was all this really necessary, Father?”

“Yes!  Look, John, no offense to you.  You seem a perfectly nice young man, but that’s just it—you’re a _young man_.  You don’t know what you want, you’re confused, and what’s more, you’re confusing my son.”

John stares in the direction Sherlock went.  “I think you’re confused, not us.”

“Come, John,” Mycroft interjects, moving around the table to haul John up by the elbow.  “I’ll get a car to take you home.”

“But—“

Mycroft shakes his head.  “That isn’t a good idea.  Follow me.”

John follows behind Sherlock’s brother on numb legs.  He hardly processes what’s going on; suddenly, he is waiting outside by the road and Mycroft is beside him. He is wearing his coat.  Someone must have handed it to him, he must have put it on and buttoned it up and walked outside, but he can’t remember any of that.

He sucks in a deep breath.  “He’s trying to break us up.  Your dad.”

“Yes.”

“But not directly.  He’s clever—just like you and Sherlock.  If he banned us being together, Sherlock would have raised hell.  So he did his research.  And he was thorough. My fucking guidance counselor's notes, Mycroft! He looked for all our weak spots and he pushed them until he found one that gave.”

Mycroft sighs.  “Yes.  John—“

John glances up at the elder Holmes, who gives him a pained look.

“Don’t come by.  Text, if you must, but be discreet.  I’ll get in touch if they leave again before the school holiday is over.”

“You’re helping us?”  John asks, astonished.  He then realises that that is not the right question.  “ _Why_ are you helping us?”

A black car pulls up and Mycroft ushers him toward it.  At the door, he pauses and puts his hands on John’s shoulders.  “Mummy was quiet.  I think she suspected, and she’s trying.  I don’t have much hope for father ever coming around, and I guarantee you that any time you ever meet him will probably end in this exact manner.”

John swings the door open, crumples into the back seat.  “Wonderful.”

“John, listen to me very carefully: Sherlock has spent the past sixteen years of his life very alone, and I will not let anyone compromise the first thing outside of mysteries and chemistry to bring him joy.”

The implication sinks in.  “You’re on our side?”

“Don’t tell Sherlock.  He’ll decide to hate you out of spite.”

Mycroft just made a joke.  _Mycroft Holmes just made a joke_.

“No he won’t,” says John.

“No,” Mycroft smiles, a bit sad, “he won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY BALLS THIS WAS HARD TO WRITE
> 
> Feeling strange about this chapter--it's not quite where I want it to be, but I'm not sure what's missing. Will ruminate and perhaps return to it at the end of the challenge. Concrit would be much appreciated.
> 
> Thanks, everyone!


	23. Arguing

John texts Sherlock as soon as he's home.

_If your parents kick up any sort of fuss, come to mine._

Sherlock doesn't respond, but then John doesn't expect him to.

–

He storms past his parents once he's inside, barely managing to wish Harry a happy birthday before he locks himself in his room. He stares at his mobile for a few minutes, sends the text, and then stares some more. When it becomes clear that Sherlock is not going to say anything, John decides to try to distract himself. He plays Angry Birds on his phone but gives up after a few levels. He attempts to read; partway through his book he realises that he has not taken in one word and throws it across the room. His head is killing him.

There's a tap at his door. From the other side, his mum says, “I've left you some dinner out in the hall. Just letting you know.”

He hears her foot steps as she walks away and is intensely grateful to have the kind of mother who knows when he needs to be left alone.

When he opens his door, he sees a sandwich and a glass of water. He drinks the water, but despite having not eaten anything at the Holmes' Christmas dinner, he's not hungry. The thought of taking a bite makes his stomach turn over. He tears apart the bread to have something to do with his hands and then leaves his dissected dinner on the nightstand by his bed.

John doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he jolts awake at two in the morning, he is spread eagled on his bed, his face pressed into his pillow. For a moment, sleep hangs heavy around him, and he is confused. Why is he still dressed? Why isn't he under the covers? Why did he wake up?

Something pings against his window and John jumps. A second later, the sound happens again. It's almost as if...

He goes to his window and looks down. Sherlock stares up at him from the ground, hand poised to throw another pebble. When he sees John, he motions for him to open his window. John does, despite the fact that the bitter cold seeps in.

“What are you doing?” John hisses into the night air. Conscious of his neighbors, he keeps his voice as low as he can. “You'll wake up my parents. Or worse, Harry.”

“Let me in!”

This is not a good idea. It's really late, dinner was a disaster, they're both tired and upset (or, well, at least they're both upset—Sherlock is not a big sleeper), and it's the middle of the night. If they're going to fight, John wants to do it when they can get properly angry at one another, not when they have to speak in glares and hushed voices.

Still, he nods toward the front of the house and sneaks out into the hallway on tip toe. When he opens the door, Sherlock breezes past him and heads straight to his bedroom. John shuts the door behind the other boy, making sure it's locked.

In his room, Sherlock perches on the edge of his bed, his back straight and his head held high. He doesn't even wait a minute; there's no stewing in awkward silence, no unhappy, pregnant pauses. His eyes flash at John, and then he is talking as fast and as quietly as he possibly can.

“You have wanted to be a doctor since you were small. I haven't asked, but I assume it's connected to some kind of childhood trauma—a serious illness or injury wherein you perceived yourself 'saved' by some gallant person wearing a white coat. It's the only situation that explains your strange hero-worship of the profession. So, faced with the idea of having to let go of your biggest dream, it makes sense that you would seek out different avenues of achieving it—the army being one of them. I understand that.”

John gulps. “But?”

“But you _didn't tell me_.”

There's something rising up John's throat; it starts out as guilt but somehow by the time it reaches his mouth the words have turned to anger. “God, Sherlock, we've been dating two months. I don't have to report my future plans to you just yet.”

It's a low blow; Sherlock's face drops before he recovers, sending a steely glare. “That's not what I mean and you know it.”

“I really don't. What the hell do you mean, then?”

“We've been friends for months!” His voice gets a bit too loud and he promptly drops it back down. “I told you—I _told_ you that you were my only friend and you didn't mention—”

“Mention _what_ exactly?” Silence. “Come on, Sherlock. Spit it out. Or are you embarrassed to only now realise that not everything in my life revolves around you?”

“You didn't mention that you were planning to leave me all along! Right from the fucking start.” Sherlock clutches at his hair. “You have lots of friends, what does it mean to you to make or lose one more? But I...”

John isn't sure what surprises him more: the admission or the fact that Sherlock just swore. Either way, it takes the edge off his own irritation. He swallows, his throat too tight for comfort. “Just—that's not what it's about, and you know it. It's not like I'm trying to escape you, or something. I want to be a doctor more than anything--”

Sherlock scoffs. “Yes, more than you want me, apparently.”

“Don't. That's not fair, and it's not true.”

“It _feels_ true. I mean—God. No warning, nothing. I knew this was a bad idea, and now everything is ruined and—”

Stiffly, John moves across the room and sits next to Sherlock on the bed. When he reaches for Sherlock's hand, the other boy crosses his arms and moves farther away. Every centimetre of distance feels like a kilometre. John sighs. “I haven't even committed to anything. I talked to the guidance counselor about joining up, like, twice.”

Sherlock inspects his nails. “So?”

“So you're getting angry over something that hasn't happened—that might not happen at all.”

“God, it's like you're not even listening.”

John frowns. “What?”

“You should have warned me, right from the start! You mentioned the plan very casually, as if you'd thought about it for months. Yet you befriended me and then we...” his voice trails off, “Is this what other people feel like, when I'm insensitive? If so, I understand them much better now. It's bloody annoying.”

“Are you asking me,” John struggles to keep his voice calm, “why I bothered to be your friend in the first place?”

Picking a piece of lint on his jacket sleeve, Sherlock mutters, “Finally, you've decided to join the conversation.”

Something large and terrible pierces John's heart; his stomach roils, and he is very glad he didn't eat the sandwich his mum made him. “You...you actually wish we hadn't become friends because of this. Because of _this_.”

When Sherlock glances over at him, his face is a myriad of emotions. John wonders how anyone can fail to read him, to understand him—his eyes are guilty, but the twist in his upper lip means he still thinks he is right, and the tension in his shoulders signifies that he doesn't know how to react right now and is therefore likely to lash out.

It occurs to John that he sees Sherlock like Sherlock sees everyone else in the world: he can put the small details together and form a picture to know exactly what's going on in the other boy's head.

Unfortunately, it isn't doing him much good, at the moment.

“I told you—right from the very start _I told you_ that we were going to end up hurting each other.”

“A blade with two edges,” John echoes numbly.

Sherlock nods. “And now we have this thing, and I'm out to my parents, and you're thinking about leaving to—what? Join a war? Do a good deed, get what you want out of life? Well, thanks ever so, John. I'll be back in England, twiddling my thumbs and getting kicked out of my house.”

The concern is instant. He bridges the gap between them without thought. “Your parents kicked you out?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock says, “Not tonight. My father popped by my room an hour ago to let me know that he expects this to be the end of 'my little phase.' I assume that when he realises this is not a phase, he's going to react poorly.”

“I'm sorry about tonight. I thought being honest was the only way to fight him, but he still won.”

“He always wins.”

John bites his lip, hesitant, but then raises hand to touch Sherlock's face. The other boy turns away. Hurt turns John's stomach inside out. “I'm not going to apologize for this, I hope you know.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For _this_. For us.”

“Well, you ought to.” Sherlock says, without inflection. He looks strangely vacant. “I was fine before, you know. I hadn't even realised I was...”

Leaning closer, John prompts, “You were what?”

Sherlock sighs. “It doesn't matter. It's just—it's cruel, really. To give me this and then take it away. I hate it. I wish we'd never met.”

Everything inside of John crumbles. Tears spring to his eyes and he aches with the force of keeping them at bay. He hadn't even realised how close he was to crying. “You shouldn't say things like that, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because they hurt, even if you don't mean them.”

There's a long pause where Sherlock says nothing, then: “Why would you assume I didn't mean it?”

A tear leaks through, making a path for the others. John rubs furiously at his face and takes a deep, gasping breath, letting it out shakily. “Alright, then. Okay. If that's really how you feel.” He stands and grabs the extra pillow off his bed. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock watches him, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

John shoves the pillow under his arm and opens his closet door, pulling out the extra quilt from the top shelf. He tries to keep his voice steady. “I'm making up the sofa for you.”

“John,” Sherlock is still on his bed, unsure and confused, “I'm not sure you understand--”

“You just dumped me. I was there. I got it.” He breaks a little and has to maneuver around the pillow to wipe his eyes. “But you also told me your dad is upset with you, and it's nearly three in the morning, so I'm not making you go back to your house.”

“But—“

“Unless that's what you prefer, but then at least text Mycroft and have him send a taxi or something, okay?” 

He doesn't wait for a reply and instead opens his bedroom door and moves out into the hallway. The tail of the blanket drags on the ground behind him. At the sofa, he dumps the pillow by the arm and then lays the quilt out flat. He should have grabbed sheets, he thinks, but this will have to do. Sherlock has followed him and hovers in the doorway, staring.

“You staying?”

The other boy nods, uncertain.

“Alright.”

He tries to say 'goodnight,' but finds he can't. This has been a terrible night. How were they happily snogging and making cookies yesterday and breaking up only a little more than twenty-four hours later? Swallowing thickly, John ducks around Sherlock, who is still standing in the doorway, and heads back to his room.

Once the door is safely locked behind him, he falls into his bed and hugs his pillow tightly. He tries to sleep, but it never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't write with music playing as I find it too much of a distraction, but I am still very influenced/inspired by songs that I love. This chapter is the product of these two songs in particular:
> 
>  
> 
> [Weezer - Why Bother?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C11KeB7O2vk)  
> [Amy Winehouse - Love is a Losing Game](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMO5Ko_77Hk)
> 
>  
> 
> So, I guess what I'm saying is: blame Rivers Cuomo and Amy Winehouse.


	24. Making up afterwards

John hovers somewhere in the space between wakefulness and sleep when he hears his doorknob jiggle. Harry, he thinks. She sometimes climbs into bed with him when she's had a nightmare. She hasn't done that in ages, but it's been a stressful week and she's only nine.

Very newly nine, at that. He remembers her birthday and feels guilty.

Just as he is about to stand and let her in, he hears a scraping sound—someone is picking his lock. He groans and turns his face into his pillow as the door swings open.

Sherlock shuts it behind him. “You're still awake.”

“Unfortunately. This has been the shittiest day, and it just won't end.” Reluctantly, he glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is cast in shadow. “Look, if you can't sleep, just call Mycroft and have him pick you up. Or, hell, I don't know. Make some tea or something. You know where the kettle is. I just...I really can't talk to you right now.”

“Alright,” says Sherlock.

John rolls back into his pillow. The door does not open and close, there are no footsteps in the hall. He flips around and Sherlock is still standing there, leaning against his wall, watching him.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not talking.”

“Oh my God,” John lets his head fall back onto the mattress behind him. It lands with a thunk. “You're not allowed to be obtuse about this, Sherlock. You just...we just...” He can't say the words. They hurt too much. “Please. This is me asking. Please leave me alone.”

“No.”

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, John lets out a garbled laugh. “Of course you won't. Well, fine. I can not talk as well as the next person.”

He drops his hands back to his sides and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His eyes are closed; he pretends he can't feel Sherlock's gaze lingering. If he can ignore Sherlock long enough, perhaps the other boy will grow bored and go away. The silence is practically a third party in the room, hanging between them, bulky and awkward.

Sherlock breaks first—which was John's intent, true, but it still surprises him. “ _John_.”

And, oh God, his voice. It cracks a bit on the 'o' in his name, sounding desperate and heartbroken and without a second though, John is out of bed and standing before Sherlock, hands cradling the taller boy's face. Sherlock leans down until their foreheads are touching.

Sherlock's cheeks are damp beneath his hands. He doesn't mention it.

“I don't know what to _do_ ,” Sherlock says, barely above a whisper.

John rubs his thumbs in soothing circles over Sherlock's cheekbones. “About what? Us?”

“Yes. No. I don't know—everything is confusing, and I've no clue what I'm doing...” He hiccups a bit. “I'm upset. It's clouding my judgment.”

They're standing too close, John thinks. They're nearly on top of on another, breathing in each other's air—Sherlock is confused, he's said. He needs space, time. Reluctantly, John moves a step back.

Sherlock makes an affronted noise, grabs John by the back of the neck, and brings them crashing together.

This is unlike any other kiss they've ever shared—there is no slow build, no preamble. It's hard and biting; Sherlock's tongue invades his mouth, and it's too much too fast and yet startlingly _not enough_ at the same time. The back of John's knees hit his bed, surprising him. He hadn't even realised they were moving. They tumble onto the bed, a mess of limbs and seeking lips.

John pulls Sherlock on top of him properly, one hand climbing up his back, feeling the notches in his spine through the other boy's shirt. The other hand lingers at Sherlock's hip, clutching tightly. Without releasing John from the kiss, Sherlock reaches down and grabs the hand, moving it to his arse.

John stills then tentatively squeezes. When Sherlock bucks against him, his eyes rolls back in his head.

“Oh God,” Sherlock groans against his mouth. He deliberately moves his hips against John's again, but now that the initial shock has warn off it's almost too much. John's in thin cotton pyjama bottoms, while Sherlock is in jeans; the material is rough against him, especially when he is feeling so...sensitive.

“Stop,” John says. Sherlock freezes instantly, jerking his head back and staring down at him with big, wounded eyes. “No, not the kissing part. Just the—it's a bit too much, with you wearing all that.”

The smile on Sherlock's face is a bit too unhappy to be alluring. “Is that your way of telling me to take them off?”

“What? No, that's not what I—”

The words die in John's throat as Sherlock pushes himself up and off, moving to the empty side of the bed. He sits on his knees, and slowly undoes the button of his jeans, then the fly. His eyes bore into John's the entire time. His thumbs hook around the sides and drags his trousers down his hips. An inch of his black boxers is showing before John finds his tongue again.

His hand darts out and catches Sherlock's wrist. “Wait, I think we should...” he gulps, “I'm not sure this is a good idea.”

Sherlock pauses for a moment and then continues to shimmy out of his jeans. “I think it is.”

“No, stop. I mean it.” John rubs a hand over his face. “I need to know why we're doing this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's almost four thirty on Christmas morning and we broke up a little more than an hour and a half ago for reasons that have not miraculously been solved in that time frame. And now you're suddenly taking your trousers off and I want you to, like _really_ want you to, but I also don't because I don't know why this is happening and--”

Sherlock puts his hand over John's mouth. “You're babbling. You know I hate that. As to why,” he shrugs, “I want you. Isn't that a good enough reason?” John shakes his head no. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock relinquishes his hand. “And why not?”

“Because you told me quite recently that you wish we'd never met, and I don't want to do something you'll regret.” John bites his lip. “Something _I'll_ regret.”

“But I didn't mean it,” Sherlock says, resting his weight on his heels.

A bitter feeling tears at John's chest. “You said you did.” When Sherlock doesn't reply, he chokes out, “Tell me what's going on in your head. I never know.”

“I'm terrified,” the other boy confesses, rolling off his legs and onto his bum. He falls down next to John, curling in so that they face each other. “I let you have too much of me, and I didn't think of what would happen if you left.”

“ _If_ I left.”

“When.” John starts to protest, but Sherlock shakes his head, “No, listen. I'm going to Cambridge. You didn't even apply there. We're going to be separated.”

“We'll still both be in England. It's not like either one of us would be moving to another country.”

“Unless you join the army.”

With a sigh, John reaches up and touches the other boy's hair. He wants to disagree, to point out the army is more an idea than a plan, but there's no point. Sherlock's curls are matted and sweaty where they are pressed to his temple. “So, you're worried I'm going to break your heart.”

“Not worried, no,” Sherlock says, “More just...waiting for it to happen. It's an inevitability. There's nothing I can do to stop it if we keep going as we are.”

“There are long distance relationsh--”

“No.”

John laughs. “I had a feeling you might say that.”

Sherlock grabs the hand in his hair and pulls it away. He doesn't let go; he brings their conjoined hands and rests them on the bare space of bed between their bodies. His thumb lightly traces John's palm. “If we keep doing this, you're going to break me. But if we don't—if we stop dating, or whatever, it hardly matters. Everything is ruined anyway. That's why I'm confused. There are no good options.”

Frowning, John looks up at Sherlock sharply. “What?”

“It'll be awkward, won't it? Trying to be 'just friends.' And we won't be like we were before all this.”

His mouth is like a desert. “You don't even want to be friends?”

“That's not,” Sherlock starts, then pauses, biting his lip, “I didn't mean that. I just—isn't that what happens?”

He knows it's a bad idea, but—fuck it, John is still a little turned on and he's so tired he can barely function and Sherlock is _right there_ , so he scoots closers and presses a lingering kiss to Sherlock's forehead. He pulls away slowly, savouring the sensation, knowing he'll probably never get to do that again.

“I told you that dating wouldn't affect our friendship,” he whispers, “and I meant it.”

“But—“

“But nothing. We'll figure it out. You're my best friend.”

Sherlock stares at him in the dark, his eyes glassy from lack of sleep. He looks pale in the moonlight; he's beautiful. John almost tells him, but—no, no they need to be friends. With a small smile, John starts, “Well, I'm knack--”

He doesn't finish his sentence, as Sherlock leans forward and kisses him. It's not like the messy, angry snog they just shared—it's sadder and sweeter, and it makes something inside of John break. He pulls his head away, grimacing. “No, Sherlock. We just agreed—”

“Last time.” Sherlock's hand is on his jaw, forcing John to meet his eyes. “One last time, okay? And then we're friends, proper friends, but I need—“

It's the word 'need' that does John in. He brings them back together again, sucking Sherlock's bottom lip between his own. Sherlock makes a strange, helpless noise; he's a bit too loud, perhaps, but John is not going to waste time telling him to quiet down. This is the last time they're going to do this—he refuses to hold back.

Sherlock's hands are everywhere, gripping the back of his neck, tugging him closer by his shirt, reaching down to grab his arse. John's breath hitches; he can feel the heat of Sherlock's palms distinctly through his thin cotton bottoms. Tentatively, he traces down the other boy's side until he comes to waistband of the still-unbuttoned jeans.

Sherlock stops, pulls away. They stare at each other, and then Sherlock croaks, “Alright.”

John swallows. “Are you sure, because it's alright if--” 

Interrupting him with a kiss, Sherlock twines his fingers with Johns and starts to push his jeans down. The process is slowed by their insistence on remaining joined at the lips, but with some careful maneuvering, Sherlock is able to kick off his trousers. They fly across the room and end up on the floor near John's dresser.

The boys stare at each other, wide-eyed in the dark and suddenly unsure.

Recovering first, Sherlock closes the tiny gap between them, all of his front pressed against all of John's. There is body heat but no pressure; biting his lip, he slings his knee over John's thigh and pushes.

Both of them gasp.

“Oh my God.” John's voice comes out gravelly and low and his eyes nearly fall closed. He forces them open. Sherlock's skin glows in the moonlight that filters through the window and his lips are slick and parted and John simply refuses to lose even a second of this moment.

Sherlock's hips move against his again. “I want--”

“Whatever it is,” John says through numb lips, “the answer is yes.”

With a groan, Sherlock flips himself on top of John, holding his weight on his palms. He positions their hips together and thrusts. John stares at him, slack-jawed, and opens his legs wider because—oh, _oh_ , nothing has ever felt this good. He strains to push back against Sherlock, his eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

In response, Sherlock goes to his elbows. He presses his face into John's neck and sneaks one hand behind his back, keeping their bodies together tightly. They move against one another, slow and unsure. Sweat beads on John's forehead.

“Sherlock, Sherlock I think I'm going to--”

Sherlock lets out a high-pitched whine. “Oh, God. Me too. John...”

Hearing his name in that husky voice does John in. Grabbing Sherlock's hips, John rubs their lower halves together once, twice and then—he stiffens beneath the taller boy, sucking in a deep breath and biting his lip to keep from announcing to everyone in the house what's just happened. Orgasm washes over him, curling his toes. Sherlock rolls off of him, his own hand diving down his pants as he begins to stroke himself, his brows furrowed in his continued quest toward ecstacy.

John is lightheaded and barely breathing, but he follows the other boy, reaching out to touch Sherlock's hand over his pants. Sherlock stills and stares down at him, pupils blown wide. John moves his hand and encourages the other boy to do the same. Together, it only takes a few pumps before Sherlock goes taut and then satisfyingly limp.

There is something slick on John's hand. It's a little uncomfortable, and he wipes it off on his duvet. Reaching out, he grabs the taller boy by the waist and drags him closer. Sherlock moves so that they are lying nose-to-nose.

“Tomorrow,” John says, nearly asleep, “we're just friends, right?”

Sherlock nods. His forehead touches John's. “Right.”

“Then I want to tell you tonight. I need to. Sherlock, I think I--”

A sleepy, sticky hand covers John's mouth. “Don't. It'll make it harder for both of us.”

John turns his head to escape Sherlock's grasp. His eyelids are heavy, he can barely make Sherlock out anymore. “But I do.”

Sherlock yawns. He settles closer. “I know. I do, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were supposed to get back together. I had every intention of them getting back together and then--I don't know, apology blow jobs? Something like that. And then last night I had this sudden burst of inspiration, so I switched everything around and frantically emailed [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) to ask her if I was insane and she told me I was Satan and that I should do it.
> 
> And here we are.
> 
> I do want to apologize for saying I would fix everything and then blatantly doing the opposite. It really wasn't my intention. I just got swept away! Sorry, dear readers. I hope you'll stick with me through the end, anyway.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback/concrit much appreciated. :)


	25. Gazing into each others' eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY DOUBLE POST DAY, EVERYBODY!

John wakes up when the first rays of sunshine hit his face. He's lying toward the window, which is strange, as he almost never shifts in his sleep. He blinks rapidly, stretching a bit.

Sherlock's voice stirs him to full consciousness. “You're awake.”

Everything comes back to John in a rush.

Flipping over, he comes face-to-face with a fully alert Sherlock Holmes. He looks terrible; there are deep circles under his eyes, and his skin looks less pale and more sickly and ashen. John nearly moves to touch the other boy and remembers at the last second that that isn't something friends do.

Although friends also don't get each other off and then sleep in the same bed, either.

Clenching his hand into a fist to keep it still, John asks, “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really, no.” Sherlock shrugs dispassionately. “I got a lot of thinking done, however. I've decided I am going to train myself to not need sleep so as to be more productive from now on.”

John rolls his eyes. “You can't train yourself to not sleep at all.”

“The bare minimum, then.”

“Twat.”

They grin at each other, and for a moment it is almost normal. The memories of the past few hours seep back to the forefront of their thoughts and the smiles slide from their faces. John knows that the second he moves from this space, they'll be back to just friends—and it's better than nothing, yes, but it's not quite what he wants. He resolves never to move again.

“Stop it, John.”

“I didn't say anything.”

Sherlock huffs into his pillow, curling his legs up. His feet prod against John's shins. Neither of them acknowledge it.

“You're thinking,” Sherlock declares, “and very loudly, at that.”

John wants to roll his eyes, but he is too focused on Sherlock. He is completely caught up in him; he feels like he's drowning. “What am I thinking, then?”

Something like hurt flits across Sherlock's face. “That we're making a mistake. That we should be together, damn the consequences.”

“Nope. Sounds to me like you're projecting,” John tells him, laughing at the very annoyed face he receives in return. “I was thinking that I don't want to get out of this bed, or start this day.” He goes quiet and chew his lip. “Why are we doing this to ourselves?”

“Because it was always going to happen eventually, and if we stop now it...” Sherlock swallows, frowning, “it _hurts_ , but only for awhile. It's only been a few months. We'll recover. By the end of summer, though? With so much more time together...if it is this awful now, imagine what that would be like.”

That makes sense, in a way. John's always been one for living in the present; he doesn't consider the future too much. That's one of the reasons he didn't apply for scholarships as he ought to have done; those were a part of his future, and he'd get there eventually, so why worry? But Sherlock's right: he feels done in now, when it's only been two months. What if he had several more months worth of memories of Sherlock—more of the tiny smiles at the corner of his mouth when he thinks John isn't looking and more of his smell and _oh God_ more of that face he made last night when he—

It would probably be unbearable, to have that and then to have to let it go.

But it's also a little unbearable to never get to know.

Still, Sherlock's made up his mind, and what is left for John to do but respect his wishes?

“John,” Sherlock's voice snaps him out of his reverie. “You're important to me. You're the only friend I have, and I can't—“

“You don't have to explain,” John says, trying not to sound as sad as he is. “You're my best friend, too. You know that.” He watches Sherlock nod and tries to smile. “And this sucks, but we'll make it through. Alright?”

“Alright.”

It's well and truly over then, John thinks. He feels a bit like his insides have dried up and are now cracking apart. With a deep breath, he presses his palm against the bed and starts to move, “Well, then, we should--”

Sherlock grabs his elbow and pulls it out from under him. John lands back on his face with a grunt. “Wait a second. Okay?”

John grimaces. “Okay. Why?”

“It starts when we move, right? When we get out of bed?” When John nods his confirmation, Sherlock continues, “Then can we have one more minute? I'll—I'll even time it.” He turns over and grabs his phone from the nightstand—he must have fished it out of his discarded jeans at some point during the night while John slept. John watches him fiddle with the screen. After a moment, Sherlock says, “There. The timer is set up. One minute.”

John's heart is breaking, he's sure of it. “Okay. Tell me when you start it.”

“Three, two, one...now.”

Sherlock drops the phone between them and then turns his eyes to John. They catch and hold his gaze, and John thinks that he'll miss this most of all. He likes to feel Sherlock's eyes on him; sometimes he can feel their weight even when he's looking away. Sherlock is always thinking, dissecting, and for a few brief moments of every day for the past two months, he has done that to John. He's thought of nothing but John and wondered about nothing but John and isn't is rather lovely, to know that someone cares— _cared_ , he reminds himself—for him that way?

He wonders if Sherlock knows, if Sherlock can even comprehend the way John loves him. Because he does, or at least, he thinks he does. He's certainly never felt this way about anyone before, and-- _God_ , Sherlock fills his every waking moment and it's still never enough. If that's not love, what is it?

Slowly, reverently, John reaches up and brushes a curl away from Sherlock's forehead. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock turns his head and brushes a kiss across the inside of John's wrist.

The timer goes off.

John's hand drops away. He fights the constricting feeling crawling up his throat. “Just—another minute, maybe?”

Sherlock is already thumbing it out on his phone. “Yes, one more should—”

Without warning, John's bedroom door swings open. Harry barrels in, wearing a long, flannel nightgown and shouting, “It's Christmas, Johnny! Get up alrea—“

Both boys flip around to gape at her. She stares right back. “You're in _bed_ together!” She exclaims.

“Harry--”

“And Sherlock's only wearing his pants!”

John can't believe the past twenty-four hours have found a way to become _worse_.

His little sister grins impishly at him as she backs out of the room. “I'm telling Mum!”

He and Sherlock groan as they hear her skitter down the hallway.


	26. Getting married

Sherlock rolls out of bed and struggles into his trousers as John bolts to the door.  He has just enough time to see Harry disappear around the corner, and then he takes off after her.  By the time he gets into the kitchen, she is already halfway through the story and his parents are smiling around their coffee cups.

“—in just his pants!” she finishes, sending John a triumphant glance when she notices his arrival.

Mrs. Watson shifts her mug to one hand, reaching out to run her fingers over Harry’s head.   Her voice is soft and teasing. “Harry, what have I told you about tattling?”

Harry pales.  “But it’s _Christmas_!  And my birthday, kind of!”

“Very true.  And John did skip out on your dinner yesterday, so we’ll allow it just this once.”

His little sister sticks her tongue out at him, breaking into giggles when he returns the gesture.  “Can we open presents now?”

“Sure.  Why don’t you go wait by the tree?”

Grinning from ear to ear, Harry skips out of the room.  From the table, his parents give him similarly amused expressions.

“So,” Mr. Watson begins, drumming his fingers against the table, “I could have sworn you came home alone last night.”  He winks at his son.  “You two patch things up, then?”

“Not really, no.”  John ruffles a hand through his hair.  “We, uh, we broke up.”

Mrs. Watson chokes on her coffee.  “What?  What the hell happened at that dinner last night, John?”

“Look, I really, really do not want to talk about it.  It’s just—it’s no one’s fault, and—“

“My father looked into your bank accounts, implied that there was no way for John to afford university without joining the army, and then told me that I would be disinherited if I continued to be a homosexual.” Sherlock announces from the doorway.  Everyone turns to stare at him as he coolly folds the cuffs of his shirt to his elbow.  “Presumably because he does not understand how homosexuality works.”

Mr. Watson slams down his cup.  The coffee jumps out and splashes the table.  “That’s illegal!  How dare he look into our private—”

“He’s practically the government, Mr. Watson.  Even if what he did was illegal, and honestly I doubt it was as he’s quite good at finding loopholes for these sorts of things, you’ll never get any sort of charges to stick.”

Grimacing, John’s mum gives him a pleading look.  “Johnny, the army?  You’ve never mentioned.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John drops his face into his hands and groans.  “Did you have to?”

Sherlock says nothing, his face a blank mask, and John knows exactly what has happened: Sherlock is scared; he feels vulnerable.  Pity turns John’s stomach, and he slowly exhales all his frustration.  Getting angry won’t make any of this better.

“Is it alright if Sherlock stays for breakfast?”

Three pairs of eyes turn to stare at John.  His mum finds her voice first, “What?”

“He’s just being a prick because he’s upset.  I am, too.  His dad is an arsehole, we can talk about the army some other time, and it’s Christmas.  Harry’s waiting to open presents.  Can’t we just,” he shrugs listlessly, “deal with everything later?”

Silence, then from down the hall: “I’m _waiting_!”

Mr. Watson clears his throat.  “Well, it sounds like her majesty wants us in the living room.”  He stands and dumps his coffee in the sink.  “We already ate, but Sherlock, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Sherlock sways on his feet.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course,” John’s dad claps the boy on the shoulder on his way out of the room.

Trailing behind, Mrs. Watson smiles at them both.  “We’ll give you a minute.  Don’t take too long though,” she winks at Sherlock, “because I think Harry will hunt you down.”

She disappears into the hallway, leaving the two of them in awkward silence.

John shrugs.  “You want some toast?”  Sherlock shakes his head.  “How about eggs?  Tea?  Anything?”

“I’m fine, John.”

“How many times has Mycroft texted you since last night?”

Sherlock lets out a dry laugh.  “I’ve stopped counting.  Apparently, I can expect quite a talking to when I get home.”

“Then don’t go home.”

“John…”

“I don’t mean permanently, or anything.  But stay the morning.  My parents don’t mind, and Harry loves you.” Letting out a big sigh, John nods toward the living room. “Besides, I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson dropped off a certain present for Harry, and I refuse to endure it on my own.”

There's a smile at the corner of Sherlock's mouth; it's sad and uncertain and sincere, and John is amazed to realize that he thinks the pair of them will be alright. Not today, or tomorrow, or any time in the immediate future, but eventually. Eventually, this won't hurt quite so much, and they'll be friends like they were for months, and everything will be as it should be.

It's a comforting thought.

There is a shriek from down the hallway, followed by laughter. Harry comes barreling into the kitchen at full speed, hopping back and forth with excitement.

“Come see! Oh my gosh, Johnny, Sherlock—you have to come see it _right now_!”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Hudson's old wedding dress.”

–

“She dropped it off a couple days ago,” Mrs. Watson tells Sherlock, once the two boys have joined John's family in the living room. John is on the floor next to Harry, who cannot stop petting the lace. “Apparently, the marriage ended rather poorly. He's in jail, now.”

“What did he do?” Sherlock asks, sounding rather too interested for politeness.

Thankfully, John's mum ignores that fact. “Not sure. I think I read he was involved in some sort of mafia thing? I don't really know. Either way, he is not a very nice man. Strange, of course, as Mrs. Hudson is the sweetest woman...”

Harry lifts up the skirt, diving underneath it. She wriggles around on the floor, a white lump of fabric, before her head pops out the open neck of the garment. She sticks her arms through the holes and gazes down at herself, admiring the view. The gown is far too big for her, but that doesn't seem to bother her at all.

“Come on, Sherlock,” she says, holding out her hand, “We're going to get married now.”

Everyone laughs. Sherlock takes her hand and stands up. “Oh, really? Shouldn't I ask your parents first?”

“They don't mind.” Harry sounds so certain that another round of laughter echoes through the room.

“And who's going to officiate our wedding?”

The girl frowns. “What is 'officialate?'”

“Officiate. I mean, who is going to marry us?”

“Ooh,” Harry smacks her forehead. “Well, Johnny, I guess.”

“I didn't realize you were ordained, John.”

“What does 'ordained' mean?”

Simultaneously, both boys say, “Nevermind.”

John jumps to his feet and stands very tall, motioning for the 'happy couple' to stand before him. Sherlock looks awkward and embarrassed; he's gone a bit pink around the ears, but he holds Harry's hand and plays along. John smiles at him and hopes it communicates how glad he is that the other boy is playing along.

Mrs. Watson gets out her mobile and aims it at the little ceremony happening in front of the Christmas tree. Frowning, John says, “No pictures.”

“Come on,” Mr. Watson protests, “you can't expect us not to tape our daughter's first wedding!”

“ _First_ wedding?” John quirks a brow.

“She's nine. I'm being realistic.”

“Alright, alright,” John waves a hand at the phone but stops protesting. “Okay, so. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here--”

Harry wrinkles her nose. “That's the boring one! I don't want that one. Don't you know the fun one? You know, from that movie we watched with mum?”

“Well, excuse me!” He makes a face at her (she answers with one of her own) before clearing his throat. He straightens up, tries to look as dignified as possible, and then: “Mawwage. Mawwage is what bwings us togevah today.”

Before him, Harry doubles over in giggles. Sherlock bites his lip to hold back a laugh and stares at him with so much naked affection that for a moment John isn't sure he can keep talking. He recovers quickly, and begins to talk about “mawwage, that bwessed awangement,” when his little sister interrupts.

“Skip to the kiss!” she declares.

Behind them, his parents are barely keeping a lid on their hysterics. John is sure the video will be unwatchable—his mum is shaking the camera badly with her silent laughter.

“If you insist,” he says. It's not part of the movie, so he improvises. “You may now kiss the bwide.”

At that, Harry turns to Sherlock, goes up on her toes...and then quickly sinks back down again. “Wait. I forgot.”

John frowns. “What?”

“I don't want to kiss anyone. That's gross.” She makes a disgusted sound. “Sorry, Sherlock. I don't really want to marry you, I guess.”

Sherlock pats her head. “I'm sure I'll recover from that blow one day.”

“You could kiss Johnny instead, if you wanted.”

The room goes absolutely still. In the corner, Mrs. Watson abruptly turns off her mobile and lets it fall into her lap. John can feel himself going tomato red and he gnaws his lip to keep a lid on his emotions. 

“Harry,” he says, “that's--”

“What?” she asks, looking around at everyone with a puzzled expression.

The doorbell rings.

John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

“That's probably my brother,” Sherlock announces, taking a step away from his bride. “I should...I should go.”

Mr. Watson stands. “Sherlock, you're more than welcome to stay. I can talk to your brother, if you'd like. Or hell, your father. I wouldn't mind giving him a piece of my--”

“It's fine, really. Thank you, but it's fine. I sneaked out, so it's my own fault if I'm in trouble.”

Harry works her arms out of the dress, pushing it down her body so she can step out. “What's going on?”

“Sherlock...” John starts. He stops when he sees the other boy give a very decisive shake of his head. “Okay. Okay, whatever you think is best. Just...text me, at some point. Let me know you're okay.”

Sherlock nods. “Yeah. I will. In a few days.”

John's chest feels hollow. A few days—just another change to which they'll have to adjust.

Turning on his heel, Sherlock heads toward the door. He opens it and the Watsons hear just a smidge of Sherlock greeting his brother before the front door closes behind him. John goes to the window and watches the Holmes brothers head to the shiny black car idling in the street.

He presses his palm to the cool pane of glass. “I forgot to give him his Christmas present,” he says to no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW ARE THERE ONLY FOUR CHAPTERS LEFT?
> 
> .....and maybe an epilogue. MAYBE.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And feel free to come say hello at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)! :)
> 
> (P.S. It is impossible to be sad when watching [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bY0fdgpISc).)


	27. On one of their birthdays

“Come on out, John,” his mum says from the other side of the dressing room door. “I want to see how those jeans fit.”

John groans. “Mum, I’m not a kid.”

“Sure you are. You’re my kid, and that means you have to listen to me. Now get out here.”

Reluctantly, John opens the door. He rolls his eyes when Mrs. Watson motions for him to turn in a circle. Ignoring his sighs, she nods. “Yep, we’re getting those.”

“Can we go now?”

“You’re worse now than when you were five.” She pauses, reassesses. “You’re worse now than when _Harry_ was five.”

John bristles then retreats into the dressing room to change back into his normal clothes. He calls out, “I resent that, you know. It wasn’t my idea to come out and buy me a bunch of clothes on my last day of winter break.”

Amusement is thick in his mother’s voice as she replies, “Yes, but your idea of what to do on the last day of winter break involved barely moving from the couch and being generally mopey and useless.”

Closing the last button on his shirt, John slings the trousers over his arm leaves the tiny room. He glares at his mother, who plucks up the jeans with a sunny smile. It is difficult to be annoyed with her, especially when he knows that this is her way of trying to cheer him up. He's not sure why she thought that buying him clothes would lift his spirits, but still: it's the thought that counts.

Plus, she's not really far off. He's not done much since Christmas besides lie about and eat all of the homemade sweets that Mrs. Hudson periodically drops off.

The truth is that he returns to school tomorrow, and they both know it's going to be hard on him. Seeing Sherlock again—actually getting to talk to him? John hasn't a clue how he's going to deal with it. He's stared at his phone for days on end but has only received one text message: a terse " _I'm fine. SH_ " when John had broken down and sent a message asking him if he was alright.

He wants to be fine. He wants to be friends. He's not there yet, but he's hoping to push himself in that direction by sheer will alone.

Anyway, it's nice of his mum to want to want to help him, get him out of the house. He just wishes she hadn't dragged him all the way downtown to do it. Surely, a walk around the neighborhood would have sufficed.

Mrs. Watson manages to find an open register, and they're out the door with his new jeans in a matter of minutes. She knocks her elbow into his ribs playfully. "Now, was that so bad?"

The sun beats down on them as they join the throng of people making their way down the sidewalk. It's a beautiful day: clear skies, no clouds. A bit cold, but it's January in London, so there's not much else to be expected. His mum is right: this wasn't so bad.

"It was alright," he concedes, ignoring the little victorious smile she flashes him.

They're a few blocks from the tube when John spots it: a little curiosity shop. It's new--the "Grand Opening" banner is still proudly hung above the door, inviting people to come inside and check out their strange collectibles. The odds and ends in the window catch John's eyes: a clown doll leers at him from the corner, next to a neat row of antique ballerina music boxes and a--

John stops. "Mum. Mum, can we go in here?"

A few steps ahead, Mrs. Watson turns around. When she sees the shop, she wrinkles her nose. "Really, John?"

"Yeah, I see something I want to buy Sherlock for his birthday."

Pity twists his mother's mouth. "I'm not sure..."

"He and I are still friends. Friends buy each other birthday presents sometimes. It's not weird." John isn't sure who he's trying to convince. "And besides, he _needs_ that."

He points, and Mrs. Watson's gaze follows his finger. When she sees it, she can't help but laugh. "Oh, he really does."

\--

Returning to school the next day is strange. Everyone falls back into routine quickly enough, showing off new mobile phones and jewelry and shoes in the courtyard before the day begins. Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John had half-expected him there, even if he'd told himself he didn't.

On his way inside, he passes Greg Lestrade at the bottom of the steps. He nods, but Greg waves him over.

"You didn't try to go to Molly's on New Year's, did you?"

John frowns. "No. Why would I go to--"

He cuts himself off. He's an idiot—Greg is talking about Molly Hooper's annual New Year's Eve blow out. Every year, her parents take a cruise over the New Year holiday and Molly throws a party. Well, really, Molly's older sister Melody throws a party in Molly's name. Last year, Mel drunkenly told John that she thinks her little sister is too shy and that she invites everyone over to help her "work on that problem."

They party is usually a pretty fun time. John hangs out with his rugby friends, drinks too much, and kisses a pretty girl at midnight. He looks forward to going every year.

He hadn't even _thought_ of it. His New Year's eve was spent prodding Harry awake every time she fell asleep--as per her instructions, of course. In years past, she'd always fallen asleep before she could finish watching all the programs on telly; this year, she had been determined.

His parents hadn't even mentioned his lack of plans.

"You forgot? Cor, mate. You're lucky. Her parents got the 'flu, and they decided not to go on the cruise. Apparently, a few people showed up, but I think Molly and Mel managed to head most of them off. Mel texted me last night to let me know that it's been rescheduled."

"Yeah?" That sounds promising. Maybe that's what John needs: a night of teenage normalcy. "For when?"

"This Friday, the sixth. Her parents are doing a weekend getaway, or something. Anyway, you in?"

He sucks in a deep breath. It shouldn't matter to him so much. It's not like he and Sherlock had had formal plans, or anything. John had just expected that they would spend Sherlock's birthday together, and he'd forgotten that that wasn't necessarily a guarantee. Now that he remembers, he gets hit with a particularly fresh stab of pain in chest. He winces. Greg stares at him, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher up his forehead as he waits for John to reply.

"You okay, mate?"

John swallows down his emotions. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. And sure, I'm in for this Friday. Sounds great."

His tone isn't very convincing, but Greg lets it slide. He claps John on the shoulder. "Great. You should let Sherlock know, too. He acted almost normal at Molly's last party."

John looks down. "Maybe. He's not really a big partier, or anything."

"Doesn't hurt to ask."

"You're right. I will."

Greg cocks his head to the side. "You sure you're alright?"

Not for the first time, John wishes he were a better actor. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little under the weather. Cold. Nothing to worry about."

The bell rings and both boys look up. The crowd of students start to run up the steps and into the building, and John gets pulled into them. He waves a hand at Lestrade, who returns the gesture, and then he makes his way to his tutor group.

–

John does not encounter Sherlock until the last class of the day. He'd thought the other boy would ditch it; Sherlock made a habit of doing so whenever they'd disagreed in the past. But no: Sherlock is present. He is slumped in his seat, rubbing a thumb back and forth over the front of his desk. He acknowledges John's presence with a slight head nod as he slouches into his regular seat on Sherlock's right.

“Hello,” John says, tentative.

“Hey.”

The silence starts small and then grows and grows until John can't take it any longer.

“How was the rest of your holiday?”

Sherlock snorts. “Miserable. Yours?”

“The same,” John says, stretching his arms above his head. When he glances over, Sherlock is retrieving a pencil from his backpack and smiling to himself.

“Have to say,” the other boy admits, using the rubber on the bottom end of the pencil to erase where someone's written the word “FREAK” at the top of his desk, “I don't hate hearing that.”

John kicks his ankle. “Arse.” He suddenly remembers his conversation about the party and clears his throat. “So, uh, are you going to Molly's on Friday?”

“I wasn't invited.” Sherlock scrubs at the mark more vigorously.

“You're being invited right now.”

Throwing down the rubber, Sherlock turns to look at John. He scans him, taking in data, organizing it. John wonders what he's looking for. Whatever it is he finds makes him frown and say, “John, I'm not sure it's a good idea.”

“I'm not—like, we won't go _together_ or anything. I'm just saying that if you want to go, you know, you can. And people want you there.”

Sherlock quirks a brow. “Oh really? Who?”

“Well, Greg for one, since he told me invite you in the first place, and Molly because she has an enormous crush on you, if you haven't already noticed. And, well, me. Because we're friends.” He hesitates. “We are still friends, yeah?”

A quick nod . “Yeah.”

“So you'll come?”

“Alright.”

Sherlock's reluctant agreement makes John a bit too happy. He tamps down the feeling, trying to keep his smile under control. “Cool,” he says.

\--

The rest of the week slips away quickly. John and Sherlock see each other once a day. They do not text. John tries not to pine and mostly fails.

“It'll get better,” he tells his reflection each morning before school.

–

The party is in full swing by the time John finally arrives, bookbag slung over his shoulder with present neatly nestled into the bottom. Just as he'd gone to leave, he'd realized he'd never wrapped Sherlock's gifts. While Sherlock was not the type to care (being more the type to laugh at caring about such a trivial issue), it bothered John enough that he'd cut up portions of The Times and used them as makeshift wrapping paper. The presents didn't look pretty, but they were serviceable.

His mum had been the one to suggest Sherlock's Christmas gift, a few days before they had broken up. When the Watsons had returned home from dropping off Aunt Nancy at the airport, they'd found their children passed out and leaning heavily on Sherlock Holmes as he watched _Lawrence of Arabia_ , rapt. After Sherlock had left, she'd pressed the DVD into John's hands.

“He's the only one who actually uses it,” she'd told him. John couldn't argue with that.

As for the birthday gift: it had been too perfect. There was no way he could have walked past that curiosity shop without buying it.

It had seemed like it would be strange to walk into a party bearing gifts (or, at least, bearing gifts that weren't beer and weren't meant to be shared with everyone else), so John had shoved them all in his school bag and then brought it along. As he enters the Hoopers' house, however, it occurs to him that it is _also_ pretty weird to bring your school bag to a party.

Fortunately for John, he is the kind of late where everyone has already had a few, and no one asks him why it looks like he brought his homework to Molly Hooper's annual New Year's Eve blowout (belated). He snags a beer from the fridge in the kitchen, still grateful to know where Mel hordes the good stuff, and then heads out to find Sherlock.

Or, well, anyone. John has other friends. He and Sherlock have been so intensely entwined the past few months that he's sort of let everyone else fall by the wayside. He still likes them, however. Maybe he and Murray from the rugby team can catch up; he hasn't seen that bastard in forever. Or perhaps he'll see Sarah, or--

It's hard to pretend. John likes his classmates, but none of them know his every thought by the way he curls his lip or puts his hand in his pocket. Several months ago, Sherlock invaded his life and took over; he outshone everyone else. He still does. John is just trying to find the balance between this feeling—this all consuming _feeling_ he has whenever he sees Sherlock, or thinks of him, or remember the way he smells in the crook of his neck—and that friendship that they had in the beginning, however briefly. John knows he started to care for Sherlock in a _more-than-strictly-platonic_ way pretty quickly. He doesn't know when it happened for Sherlock. He never asked. He guesses now he never will.

“John!”

John turns to find Molly waving him over, her smile small and nervous. She's standing with a gaggle of her friends in a corner, empty handed. Not drinking, then. He wonders why she lets Melody talk her into this ridiculous party every year.

“Hi Molly,” he says, approaching the group. “How are you?”

“I'm great. I wanted to introduce you,” she waves a hand at the blonde next to her, “Mary, this is John Watson. John, this is my friend Mary. Mary and I went to primary school together, and she's just moved back to London.”

Mary holds out her hand. “Mary Morstan.”

She's pretty—really pretty. Big blue eyes and long blonde hair and if he weren't so mad for a certain raven-haired, antisocial genius, he would be turning on his charm at this exact moment. Molly clearly expects him to; she's giving him a very encouraging look, eyebrows raised, smile a touch too wide.

“It's nice to meet you,” John tells the newcomer, “Must be rough, to move here for your last year.”

Mary shrugs. “Army brat. Bit used to it, really.”

That piques his interest. “Oh? I've been thinking about it, lately. The army, I mean. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all, although I'm not sure if I can help you. After all, everything I have to say will be secondary information.”

“Nah, it's good to have perspective,” John assures her. He fishes around in his pocket for his phone and unlocks it, handing it to her. “This isn't exactly an ideal environment, though. Put your number in and I'll text you about it.”

Mary grins at him as she thumbs out something on his mobile. “Well! I have to say, that was pretty smooth, Watson.”

He frowns. Smooth? She can't possibly—does she think he is trying to chat her up? He stutters over how to correct her, flushing when she bursts into laughter.

“Oh, stop. I was just teasing. If you keep blushing like that, though, you're going to make me wish you really _were_ chatting me up.”

That, of course, makes John turn a deeper shade of red, much to Mary's amusement. Her eyes crinkle in a very becoming way; she really is a pretty girl. Maybe in a few months, he thinks, he'll revisit this moment and kick himself for not flirting.

It scares him a bit to wonder what it will mean if he doesn't.

He doesn't have too long to ponder that idea, however, as he sees Sherlock round a corner and pause in the mouth of the room, frowning in John's general direction. John makes his excuses to Mary, who turns back to the group of Molly's friends with a shrug and an assurance that he should feel free to text her whenever he wants.

John fights his way through the crowd of drunken teenagers, careful not to swing his bag around. When he gets to Sherlock, he begins, “Hey, I have--”

Sherlock, however, cuts him off. “Who was that?”

“Who?” John looks around. He sees the girls and understands. “Oh, some friend of Molly's. I only met her for a minute. Mary something.”

Sherlock makes a dismissive humming noise. John takes a swig of his beer, grinning around the bottle. “Are you _jealous_?”

The withering glare he gets in return is answer enough.

Instead of torturing the both of them with more questions, John throws back his beer and leaves the empty bottle on the coffee table. “I brought you your birthday gift.”

“Ah, that explains the bag. Also, you didn't have to get me anything.”

“Of course I did,” John says, “You're my best mate.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “Still?”

It's like a punch in the gut, and John struggles not to let that show on his face. He tries to speak and struggles to find his voice. Clearing his throat, he finally manages, “Come on, let’s go outside.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “It’s _January_.”

“Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize you were such a delicate flower,” John tugs at the other boy’s elbow. “Don’t be a baby. It’ll only take us five minutes.”

The pair filter outside, onto the Hoopers’ back porch. They’re the only ones outside; the chill has even discouraged the smokers, which is impressive. John flips his backpack around to the front and opens the zipper, reaching his hand inside.

He finds the DVD first. “Here, this one’s for Christmas.”

With a frown, Sherlock accepts the gift. “You didn’t tell me you got me a Christmas present.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have time to give it you. Don't worry, I wasn't expecting anything in return.” Sherlock stares down at the crappy wrapping job, and John knocks their shoulders together. “It isn’t going to open itself, you know.”

Slipping his finger under the fold in the paper, Sherlock tears back the tape. He slides the DVD case out and rolls his eyes when he sees it; the gesture is belied by the smile he fights. “ _Lawrence of Arabia_?”

“You’ve watched it more than anyone in my house. We all agreed that it would be better off living with you,” John grins. He reaches inside his bag and pulls out the box that contains the second present. “Now, for your birthday present. Be careful with this one. Don’t shake it, or anything.”

The look Sherlock gives him clearly states that he thinks John is an idiot. Nevertheless, he accepts the package carefully. He raises it to his ear, smells it, tests its weight. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

The other boy tears the paper and opens up the top flap of the box. When he looks inside, his jaw goes slack. His head snaps up, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

Warmth blooms in John’s chest, and he can’t stop the grin that comes across his face. “I found it at this weird place downtown. The guy at the shop didn’t want to sell, but I begged. I knew you had to have it.”

Gingerly, Sherlock reaches into the box and pulls out a skull. He traces the eyes sockets, his fingertips lightly touching the bone. He clears his throat. “Thank you, John. This is…” He trails off without finishing his sentence.

“Speechless, huh?”

The joke falls flat, however, as Sherlock says nothing. He places the skull back in its box, hugging it tightly to his chest, then looks out over Molly Hooper’s backyard. He glances at John out of the corner of his eye. “I think we should go back inside.”

John’s brow creases. Suddenly, Sherlock seems sad. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” the taller boy responds too quickly. He shakes his head as if to clear it. “I’m just cold.”

Part of John wants to press the issue, but he reminds himself that that isn’t his job anymore. They’re friends. He shrugs and opens the back door, only to feel a gentle touch at his wrist. When he turns around, Sherlock flushes and pulls his hand back.

“I,” he starts, “Thank you. Really.”

The light bulb above the door hits Sherlock’s face in a way so that his cheekbones cast shadows on his face. He looks ethereal and strange. John wants to kiss him; he thinks that if he did, Sherlock would kiss back. Being his friend for a very long time is more important than being his boyfriend for a little while, however. Sherlock's right. There's no way they'd survive the heartbreak. 

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, as he follows John inside, “it is.”

\--

Hours later, John stumbles back home. He could have slept over at Molly’s, he supposes, but then he would have felt obligated to help her clean in the morning. Instead, he fights with his key in the lock on the front door, dumps his bookbag in the hallway, and then heads to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. He fills up a cup and takes a sip, savouring the way the cool drink slips down his throat.

He starts to wander back in the direction of his room when he notices an envelope sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, unopened. It’s addressed to him, and it’s from St. Bart’s. Gulping down the rest of his water and setting the glass aside, John reaches out and runs his thumb under the adhesive.

He barely breathes as the letter falls out into his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to go sleep forever now, kthxbye.


	28. Doing something ridiculous

Sherlock kicks ass at Mario Kart, and that's clearly unfair. He's never played Mario Kart in his life—or so he claims. He could be lying so that he seems more impressive, John supposes, but that hardly seems likely. It's far more probable that, like with most other things, Sherlock is preternaturally gifted.

The prick.

Sherlock's character blows past John's, knocking him off Rainbow Road. “Oi!” John says, elbowing the other boy in the arm and causing him to fly off the course, as well.

“That was cheating—and look, now I'm in seventh!” Sherlock glares at the screen. As soon as he's placed back on the track, he's off.

It's incredible. _No one_ is this good at Rainbow Road.

Harry sits on the floor at John's feet. She'd talked up a storm through the first few courses, cheering on Sherlock and heckling her brother, but she knows better than to prattle on during this level. She watches the screen with interest, snickering when John takes another dive off the road and into the abyss.

“I play winner,” she declares.

John nudges her with his foot, never taking his eyes off the telly. “No way, we're not done.”

She flicks his calf, pouting when it doesn't break his concentration. “But I want to play, too.”

“You can play later, once we've stopped.”

“Why would _that_ be fun?”

Sherlock rolls over the finish line. Somehow, he managed to get back to first place, and he sends John a cocky smile. “Your brother is just sore because he knows you're a better player than him.”

That is _not_ why. Probably. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

The game automatically stops, despite the fact that John isn't done with course. He throws down his controller and ignores the gloating looks his best friend and little sister shoot in his direction.

It's almost back to normal, his relationship with Sherlock. It was awkward and stilted for all of January, with them barely texting and hardly seeing each other outside of school. A case came up in early February, and Sherlock had asked for his help—someone had set up a camera in the girls' locker room at school and had blackmailed the young women caught on film for exorbitant amounts of money. Sherlock went undercover for that case—he'd even had to pretend to date a girl for two weeks. That had been painful; it hurt to see Sherlock even pantomime a romantic relationship with someone else.

It had also been a bit funny, though; his face after she'd kissed him the first time (in the school courtyard, of all places, _really_ ) was so disgusted that John still wished he'd managed to snap a picture. The boys had figured out that it was Dr. Magnussen, the Head Teacher, right before Valentine's Day, which they had spent very, very far apart.

That particular case had landed the pair of them in the local paper, which John prides himself on. He clipped the article; it's still hanging on the wall in his room, right next to his bed. It's a pretty good picture, with John smiling at the camera and Sherlock standing beside him, collar flipped up against the wind, looking mysterious.

By the beginning of March, things were finally okay. Not perfect—sometimes John catches himself staring at Sherlock during their shared class, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't sometimes flip over and let himself look at the picture from the newspaper while he was having a sneaky wank at night. The feelings haven't dissipated so much as they've been relegated to the back of his mind.

Sherlock, on the other hand, has adjusted admirably. Immediately post-break up, there would be moments: he would catch John in his staring and then stare right back, he'd stand too close while they rode to the tube. The case seemed to have solved any lingering feelings he'd had, however. He'd seemed the same old Sherlock afterward: proud and vain and distant and yet still unbelievably brilliant.

There are times when it sucks. The memories get to him: Sherlock deducing the fate of Enterprise with John's concussed head in his lap, Sherlock asking if they can go as fast as he wants right before they _really_ snog for the first time. His heart aches in his chest to remember these things; there really is nothing so terrible like losing a first love.

John looks over at Sherlock, who is texting on his mobile and ignoring Harry's demands that he join her for another round of Mario Kart.

He hasn't really lost Sherlock, though. He might have, if they'd dated much longer and fallen too hard and then had to let go. But ultimately, it seems like Sherlock was right, as usual. They're friends, and it's great—and if he has the occasional fantasy, well, that's John's business and no one else's.

“Who are you texting?” John asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “My father. He's being as pleasant as usual.”

“Tell him 'hi' for me.”

A smirk curls the corner of Sherlock's mouth. “I really ought to. Would serve him right.”

The fact that Sherlock is starting to grin like he thinks this might actually be a splendid plan makes John's stomach harden with worry. “I was joking. Hasn't he only just stopped bitching that we still hang out?” He belatedly remembers Harry's presence. “Pretend I didn't say a swear word. Also, go away.”

Harry sticks out her tongue. “You can't have both!”

“Fine then. Go away.”

The girl stomps from the room, presumably to tattle on him for cursing in front of her.

The smile disappears from Sherlock's face as abruptly as it sprung to life; he doesn't even seem to register Harry's absence. “He's insufferable. It took _Mycroft_ to convince him that everything was,” he shrugged, “well, you know.”

A small part of John hurts. “That sucks.”

“ _Mycroft_ , John. I'm indebted to _Mycroft_. He will ride this for the rest of eternity.”

John opens his mouth to answer when his pocket buzzes. He holds up a hand to Sherlock and then gets out his mobile, unlocking it and holding it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, I'm calling for John Watson.”

The male voice is unfamiliar. “Speaking.”

“Mr. Watson,” the man on the other end of the line says, sounding pleased, “I'm Staff Sergeant David Milborn, the Senior Army Careers Adviser at the Army Careers Centre. We've received your application and would like to set up an interview with you for next week.”

John's heart beats out of his chest. He feels a stupid grin light up his face; they've finally called! It feels as though he submitted his application ages ago—well, a few weeks, really, but still. He tries to tamp down his enthusiasm, when really he wants to stand up and do a little victory dance.

He and the Staff Sergeant spend a few minutes hammering out the details of his interview—five days from now, at 4:30 PM—and then he hangs up. With a great whoop of excitement, he places his mobile on the coffee table and turns to look at Sherlock—

—who has gone pale and is staring at him, open-mouthed.

It occurs to John that he never really got around to telling Sherlock he'd applied for the army. He hadn't kept it from his friend maliciously, there had just never seemed to be a good time. The acceptance letters from the universities he'd applied to had arrived—St. Bart's, Kings College. They'd offered him partial grants, but when he'd done the math, it just hadn't seemed worth it.

If he joine the army, he could go for free in four years' time. It had seemed...practical.

Plus, it wasn't like John had chosen the army at random. It had always interested him, he'd just never really considered it until it had abruptly made itself a very attractive option.

John licks his lips. “Sherlock...”

“The army. That was—what, your first call from them? An interview, then. Which means you applied weeks ago, that you've known for _weeks_...” Sherlock trails off, tugging at his hair. “You didn't even mention hearing back from university.”

“I got in,” John admits. He winces at the incredulous look thrown his direction. “But—partial grants. I'd have had loans until I was practically dead. It just makes sense—“

Sherlock cuts him off. “Oh, yes. It makes perfect sense to join the Army when there's a bleeding war on!”

Hot anger rises up John's throat, but he swallows it down. He doesn't want to fight with Sherlock, especially about this. He's had enough of that, thanks. They're finally okay—it's taken so long and he refuses to reverse their progress.

He shrugs. “Look, I don't—why are we even getting angry about this? It's fine, right? I mean, hell, this is why...” He can't bring himself to finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, his voice strangled, “I suppose you're right.”

They sit in silence, Mario Kart still happily playing in the background. Harry rushes into the room at top speed. “Johnny, Sherlock! Mum says dinner is...” she trails off. She may be nine, but she isn't an idiot. She puts her hands on her hips. “Are you two fighting?”

“Oh my God,” John drops his head into his hands. “We're not eating right now, Harry.”

“But Mum said--”

“I don't care! Just—go tell Mum we'll be there in a little while.” He regrets his outburst as Harry turns her saddest eyes at him before stomping out of the room and back toward the kitchen. He turns toward Sherlock. “Come on, let's just...finish this conversation in my room.”

Sherlock stands stiffly and crosses his arms, looking down at the floor. “I don't really want to do that. I think I'm just going to go home.”

John groans. “No, you can't!” He sighs when Sherlock glares at him. “Well, okay, you obviously can, but...please don't?”

“Why not?”

“Because you're upset, and I'm...” John searches for the words. “I don't understand.”

He feels Sherlock's gaze on him, heavy to the point of being nearly suffocating. When he finds the courage to look up, the stare is so intense that he can hardly hold it. Sherlock is analyzing, deducing, and John wishes he had an inkling of where his mind was.

“Fine,” says Sherlock, standing and heading directly toward the bedroom, leaving John to trail behind him.

Once they're safely inside his room, John turns and locks the door. He stares at the flaking white paint on the wood and then takes a deep breath to steady himself. He turns—and then tries to back up despite the lack of space because Sherlock is _right there_.

Sherlock rakes his eyes over John's face once more and then declares: “Fuck it.”

John experiences exactly a quarter-second of confusion, and then Sherlock's lips are on his, hot and insistent as they pry his mouth open. There are tongues and warm, wet heat and the press of the taller boy's body against his in all the best places.

It's wonderful.

All of a sudden, it seems insane to consider that he's lived without this for months. How has he managed—knowing what Sherlock tastes like and the sounds he makes when John's hands move to his back and tug him closer—to restrain himself? It feels as though some vital part of himself has been missing for far too long and it's only just now fallen back into place.

Sherlock tears his mouth away, peppering a line of kisses across John's cheek, then his jawline, then his throat. The doorknob digs into John's side, and the pain brings him back to reality.

“Sherlock,” John says, breathy, “Sherlock, stop.”

To his credit, Sherlock complies instantly. He answers through panted breaths that curl against John's cheek. “Why?”

The proximity makes it difficult for John to remember what he was thinking. “I—this isn't what you want, you said--”

“I was wrong,” Sherlock seems to feel that admitting that once again gives him privileges to suck on John's neck.

“Well...” John starts, because _ohmyGodthatfeelssogood_ , but then his brain kicks in. He pushes against Sherlock's shoulders. The distance helps immensely. “You can't just do that. I mean—it's taken us months to get back to where we were, you know? Months. And you can't just say 'fuck it' and then pounce on me without even asking.”

Sherlock looks a bit pink, and it's not just from exertion. “You seemed to be enjoying it.”

“Not the point. It's still wrong.”

“Oh, God. Fine. Just move then. Let me out.”

He's trying to leave? He can't just leave! “No.” Sherlock does his best to wrestle him away from the door, but John holds firm. “Stop! This is ridiculous. You don't have to be embarrassed or hurt or—I don't know, I can never predict what you're feeling. But you _do_ have to stop being such a coward and talk to me!”

With a glare Sherlock takes a measured step back. “Fine.”

Now that the other boy is cooperating, John is at a loss. He shifts back and forth on his feet. “I, uh. Well.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really? You're--”

“I have a feeling I shouldn't let you finish that thought.” John interrupts, enduring the evil eye Sherlock casts his way. “Alright. Cards on the table, then. What the hell was that, Sherlock?”

“A kiss. You may recall, we've done that before,” Sherlock deadpans. If John didn't know him better, he'd think the other boy really didn't care.

John sighs. “I'm not angry, alright? You don't need to get all defensive. I mean, you were there. I kissed you back. But I thought that, you know, you wanted distance. Romantically. So that we could spare ourselves all the pain of a messier break up later on.”

Letting out an indelicate snort, Sherlock shrugs listlessly. “Yes, well.”

“What does that even _mean_? You can't just dismiss--”

“Don't be thick, John. Alright? I know you're an idiot, but at least make an effort.” Upon noticing John's continued confusion, Sherlock heaves a weary sigh. “I give up. There are no good choices, there's no way around the pain. I thought if I broke it off, I could train myself to overcome these emotions, but I obviously can't because realizing you're still going nearly broke me apart and yet even now I can't stop thinking about kissing you. And really, temptation is hideous, so let's just go ahead and snog. Okay?”

He leans forward with the intent to capture John's lip, but John dodges. “Not okay! Or, well, yes, that's definitely what I want, but you're throwing a lot at me, here. Give me a second.”

“One,” Sherlock says, sarcastic. He doesn't move, though, for which John is grateful.

Something warm and excited builds in John's chest. He feels like a newborn colt on shaking legs. “This is—big. You know that, right?” Sherlock nods his agreement. “I won't be able to take it if you decide that you're scared of being hurt and dump me again. I need you to be careful. I need you to be sure.”

For the first time, Sherlock retreats willingly. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I don't know, exactly. I'm not asking for forever, or anything, but you can't just break up with me every time you get scared of the future.”

Sherlock frowns, chewing on his bottom lip. He makes it look plush and full. John wants to nibble on it. He's so caught up, he barely notices when Sherlock says, “But what about the army?”

“What about it?”

“You earn strong marks, are in good physical condition, and you will have no problems passing any sort of psych test. You're a fine candidate for the army, and they're going to realise that. You'll leave. What then?”

Slowly, John reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hand. He thinks back to that day, months and months ago, when Sherlock held his hand in an alleyway as they hid from Anderson's group of douchebags. He squeezes Sherlock's fingers gently, smiles when the other boy returns the pressure.

“I don't know. I honestly don't. You're not keen on long distance,” he laughs a bit when Sherlock wrinkles his nose, “and I won't force you into anything. But we can always burn that bridge when we come to it. We don't need every answer right this second.”

Sherlock leans forward, pushing against John until John's back hits the door with a small thud. “I want you,” he says. It's not a sexy declaration, but instead a plaintive one: he wants John, in every meaning of the word. “I tried to stop. It didn't work.”

“Not for me, either,” John reaches up and pets Sherlock's hair. “I've missed you.”

Sherlock looks up and gives him a light, chaste kiss. “I'm sorry.”

“You thought you were right,” John soothes him, his fingers catching and then working at a knot in one curl. “It's an easy mistake to make. After all, you usually are.”


	29. Doing something sweet

“If our dating is supposed to be a big secret,” John says, wrenching away when Sherlock tries to fix his tie for the third time in as many minutes, “then why are you coming with me to this interview?”

Sherlock leans back in his seat, petulantly stretching his legs out before him. The tube is crowded with people leaving school and work, and a woman glares at Sherlock. He pretends he doesn't notice. “As I recall, it wasn't my idea to make us a secret.”

John rolls his eyes. They are not fighting about this again, especially not on the underground in front of a group of strangers. “No, but you agreed to it. Don't be this way. He'll kick you out, and I am not having it. He's only just started trusting you again.”

“You forget that I care for neither him nor his opinion.”

“Yes, well. I care about you sleeping rough.”

Scoffing, Sherlock runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Oh, come on. We both know your parents wouldn't let that happen.”

Which is true. When the pair of them had hidden themselves away in John's room and never come out for dinner, his parents had cottoned on to what had happened. His mother had squeezed the hell out of Sherlock when they'd finally stopped resisting the rumbling of their stomachs and had emerged. It was comforting, in a way, to know that Sherlock had _some_ allies. 

It makes John feel slightly less guilty for leaving.

Well, maybe. He still has an interview to get through.

Sherlock knocks his shoulder into John's. “Stop worrying. You're extremely capable. They're going to see that.”

“And if they don't? I don't exactly have a backup plan.”

“If they don't, you can move in with me.”

John cocks his head. “You're moving into a dormitory.”

“We'll have to sneak you in. It will be sexy.”

Everyone turns and glares when John lets out an enormous peal of laughter. He slumps in his seat. “You're trying to make me feel better, stop me from worrying. That's rather sweet, you know.”

“This is our stop,” Sherlock tells him, grabbing John by the arm and dragging him up the stairs and back onto the street. The Army Careers Center sits in a nondescript grey building at the corner of the street. Just looking at it makes John's heart rate speed up.

He wants this. He genuinely _wants_ this. He's not sure he realised how much until this exact moment.

There's a gentle pressure at his back as Sherlock nudges him forward. As soon as he takes his first halting step, the warm palm at the base of his spine disappears; the CCTV is everywhere, after all, and it really is in Sherlock's best interest if his family is kept ignorant for a little while longer.

Down the street and into the building. Sherlock is surprisingly well-behaved; he doesn't even make a comment about the Queen and Country-type posters plastered all over the wall. Instead, he curls into his seat in the waiting room, arms locked around his knees, and stares as John lets the man at the desk know that he's arrived for his interview.

John sinks into the seat beside Sherlock, his heel jumping up and down as the wait stretches out. To his left, Sherlock mutters, “Stop fidgeting. You've nothing to worry about.”

It takes conscious effort to still his leg. “It's not as though I can help worrying.”

A uniformed man appears in the doorway. “John Watson?”

John stands. He looks down at Sherlock, who gives him a tiny smile. It's barely anything at all, but after seeing it, John feels like he can breathe again. He straightens and turns to his interviewer.

They shake hands briefly and then disappear behind the door.

–

“I can't believe it,” John says for the hundredth time since they entered the cab. “It went well. It went _really_ well.”

“Yes, I heard you. Again and again.”

John pokes Sherlock in his side. “Alright, I get it. Thanks for paying for the cab, by the way.”

“It's your congratulations cab ride. Don't expect me to make a habit of it.”

“I don't.” John tries to remain quiet, but the words bubble up out of him, unbidden. “It's just—he said that as long as my medical report comes back alright, he's going to recommend me to the Assessment Center. I just...” He exhales, shaking his head in disbelief. “As long as I pass basic, I'm in.”

Sherlock moves closer, until their thighs are touching. “If that's all that's standing in your way, then good on you, you're part of the armed forces.”

It's impossible to notice the false notes in Sherlock's tone; for all his support and patience, the other boy is still not happy that this is the path John's chosen to go. He's said nothing, of course; he wouldn't admit such a thing to John. Nevertheless, John can tell. It's in the way Sherlock looks away when John mentions the army, in the tightness around his mouth.

“You don't have to pretend to be okay with this, you know,” John says. “I can tell when you're upset.”

Pale blue eyes shift to meet his own; they seem to stare through him. John feels naked under Sherlock's stare. “I am determined to enjoy the time we have.”

The mood has suddenly shifted from joyous to somber, and John leans his weight into Sherlock's side. “Wanting to go into the army doesn't mean I don't want this.”

“You can want more than one thing simultaneously, yes,” Sherlock agrees.

They ride in silence for a few minutes. Their cabbie swerves to avoid another vehicle and lets out a rapid string of curses. The movement makes John collapse into Sherlock's lap. He presses his hand into the other boy's thigh as he straightens himself.

Once back in his right seat, however, he leaves his hand where it is. “I could,” he clears his throat, “I mean, when we get back to mine. I could show you just how much I want.”

Sherlock stares at him, brow slightly furrowed. When he looks away, it's to check their surroundings. He puts his hand over John's. “We're almost there.”

“Good,” says John, squeezing lightly.

The cab pulls over thirty seconds later, and Sherlock practically throws his wallet at the man.

–

They struggle to look casual while John attempts to unlock his front door—CCTV, John reminds himself as he considers letting the keys drop and groping Sherlock immediately.

Finally, the lock turns. Once inside, John casually calls out, “Hello?”

Silence. Harry's at a play date, or something, his dad is still at work, and he has no idea where his mother is, but it is apparently not there, as no one answers him.

John sighs with relief. “Perfect.”

They're on each other in a heartbeat, John straining on his tip toes as Sherlock grabs his arse and tugs them even closer together. They stumble-kiss down the foyer toward John's room, fumbling with the doorknob when they get there. Once inside, John (barely) remembers to lock the door and they quickly end up on the bed.

Sherlock starts to work at the buttons on John's shirt in between kisses. “You've been driving me mad, wearing this shirt.”

“Oh really?” John teases. He tries to help by unclasping the buttons at the bottom, but Sherlock slaps his hands away.

“I want to do it.”

John will never complain about Sherlock wanting to undress him. He takes delight in the frustrated little noise his boyfriend makes when he discovers the vest John is wearing underneath his button down. Sherlock tugs at the hem, lifting it up, and John shifts so that it can be removed entirely.

He's half naked in front of the boy he loves. 

“Your turn,” John says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels. Sherlock is still in his school uniform, and he makes a protesting noise when John starts fiddling with the buttons on top.

“Hurry up,” he whines, nearly writhing.

Finally, the buttons come apart and shirt falls open. He pushes it from Sherlock's shoulders, smiling a bit when Sherlock slips his arms out and throws the shirt across the bedroom floor. Hesitant, John places a hand on the other boy's chest, right over his heart.

He trails his fingers lower. “You're really--”

Sherlock is apparently uninterested in John's idea of what he really is, as he cuts him off with a hard kiss. John parts his lips and moans when Sherlock rolls his tongue. His hand follows the trail of hair at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach until it pauses at the button on the other boy's jeans.

Sherlock stills. “Yes. Yes, that's--”

John pops the button. The zip goes down, and John timidly touches where he can see Sherlock straining against his pants. The other boy is hot and heavy in his hand, even through the cotton fabric that keeps him from touching skin-on-skin.

He trails his fingers up and down Sherlock's cock, fascinated. Sherlock tugs at John's hair until he looks up so that they can seek each other's lips. It is wonderful, and it feels good, and yet...

There's something _off_ that John can't quite put his finger on. Sherlock is pressed tightly against him, pushing his hips into John's hand while kissing him to the point of breathlessness, and yet—

There's something desperate and unhappy in the noises coming out of Sherlock's throat.

Without warning, he removes his hand from the other boy's pants. Sherlock's eyes fly open and he stares down at John, frowning. “What—I mean, I'll have you know I was rather enjoying that.”

“Good to hear,” John replies. “What's wrong?”

“Currently? I'm rather put out about the aborted hand job, if you must know.”

John fights not to be amused. He refuses to find Sherlock witty right now. “I'm not an idiot. I _know_ you, and there's something going on. I don't want to play 'guess the emotion' right now, so just tell me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It's nothing, John. It's not as if you don't already know.”

“The army?”

A sigh. “Must we talk about it?”

There's just no way around it: John's joining the army is going to hurt Sherlock. It doesn't matter if they're friends or boyfriends or lovers or whatever. Neither of them is going to escape this relationship unscathed. Looking at Sherlock, shirtless and panting, John remembers why they chose the more practical path all those months ago. It really had made sense.

As he stares at the other boy, however, John is intensely grateful that they've decided to go the nonsensical route. He places his hands on Sherlock's cheeks and whispers, “Sherlock, I love you.”

Sherlock tenses. He tries to struggle out of John's grasp. “Don't, just--”

John relinquishes his grip but remains close. “I love you so much.”

“What part of 'don't,” comes the terse reply, “do you not understand?”

“It's alright if you don't feel the same yet. Or ever, really. I'm not asking you for anything, or making demands. I just wanted-- _needed_ \--you to know how I feel.”

Launching himself forward, Sherlock's lips crash against John's. He gives a series of short kisses, again and again, only ever pausing to murmur, “Stop. Stop, please. Just stop.”

The moment is too desperate; any arousal John felt dies and is replaced with a need to protect. He pulls away, guiding Sherlock's head so that it rests on John's chest. Sherlock runs a hand up and down John's stomach.

“I can love more than one thing at once,” John says.

Sherlock sighs, ruffling John's small dusting of chest hair. “I wish it were only me, though.”

There's no reply to that that will makes things better or that will change the facts. The future is inevitable; it hangs in front of them, upsetting and lonely. The path they're on forks, and they're both determined to go separate directions.

John grips Sherlock a little tighter.

Muffled against his chest, Sherlock says, “John, I...”

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

“It's okay. I know.”

Sherlock makes a skeptical noise against his skin.

“Do you?”

John nods, even though he knows no one is watching him. “I do.”


	30. Doing something hot

There's a knock at his bedroom door.

“John?” Mr. Watson says, his voice carrying. “Sherlock? We're leaving in five minutes.”

“Alright, Dad,” John calls back.

“I mean it. Five minutes.”

“ _Alright_!”

The floorboards in the hallway creak as his dad walks away, muttering to himself. John swallows down his guilt; he doesn't have time to worry about that. There's so much to say and—

He doesn't have _time_.

Sherlock sits next to him on the bed, his features drawn. He frowns at the floor, kicking his heel back against the frame of John's bed.

John nudges him. “Alright?”

“No.” The only other sound is the steady _thunk-thunk-thunk_ of his shoe hitting wood. “I'm not.”

Leaning over, John kisses the other boy's cheek, nuzzles lightly at his ear. “We'll call and write. I'll get leave eventually.”

“They're flying you into an active warzone, John,” Sherlock says, his voice dull.

“Not right away. I still have phase two training, and that can take months.”

“Eventually, though.”

He's right, and they both know it. John completed his two-day assessment right after school ended; he'd done so well that he'd been pushed through to phase one—basic training—right away. Then, he'd spent two long months getting up early, going through drills, and learning combat training. It had been long and grueling and—well, kind of wonderful, really. John had loved it. He'd loved the challenge of it all, the feeling that he was part of something bigger than himself, the promise of danger.

He's onto phase two after today. More training, and then to his specific assignment—mostly likely Afghanistan or Iraq.

If it weren't for Sherlock, John thinks he'd have no regrets at all.

The two weeks of leave he's had since finishing basic training have been hectic—he scheduled in time with his friends and watched _Singin' in the Rain_ three times with Harry. He dealt with his mother's teary eyes and his father's silences. 

And then there was Sherlock.

He'd half-expected Sherlock to avoid him once he got home. Refuse to see him, hate him for choosing the army instead of university, send Mycroft to tell John to leave him alone. Instead, the exact opposite happened: he's barely left John's side. He's been there when John gets up in the morning, drinking tea with his parents or watching telly with Harry. One morning, he conducted experiments in the Watson's kitchen (his mum had not been pleased with the small explosion that had caused).

He barely reacted when John told him about the months of training ahead of him, about what John suspects will be his eventual placement. He hasn't said much, as a general rule. John knows that Sherlock is hurting, has tried to get him to talk about it, but whenever he's brought it up, the only thing he's received in return is a blank stare. In fact, Sherlock has hardly mentioned the army at all; the closest he got to that was the first night back when he had expressed an appreciation for the new muscles John had developed during basic, and that hadn't involved very many words.

He kept telling himself that Sherlock would come around, that they had time. Now, his parents are ushering Harry into the car and preparing to drop him off at the train station, where he'll travel to his new base. Nine months, maybe a year before he'll be able to come home, and then he'll be off to someplace much more dangerous. 

Two weeks have gone by, and they haven't really talked. Now it's too late.

“Sherlock,” John says, resting his head down on the other boy's shoulder. “I'm going to miss you.”

Sherlock turns his head and brushes his lips across John's hair. He says nothing.

“I don't—” The words come with great difficulty, but John takes a deep breath and forces them out of his throat, “We haven't said anything about it, about us.”

He can't see Sherlock's face, and yet John is positive he is grimacing. “Must we?”

“I just want you to know that—I understand, you know, that you've never been interested in the whole long distance thing. And I won't ask that of you.” He swallows thickly. “I love you.”

John is still the only one who has managed to say it aloud. Over the course of the past few months, Sherlock has stopped protesting the declaration; it took him weeks to become comfortable with it. John thinks that he's even tried to say it back a few times, but never with any success. It's not upsetting, however. He knows how Sherlock feels about him, knows it all the way into his bones, and it's love, even if he can't say it.

Sherlock drops his shoulder away, forcing John to look up and meet his eyes. He appears calm, collected. “It's what makes sense, what with me in uni and you in the army. We'd drive each other mad if we tried to work it out.”

“Pretty sure you've already driven me mad,” John jokes weakly. He tries to smile, but it falls flat. “You _will_ write, won't you?”

A resigned sigh. “Of course.”

“I mean it. You're important to me. You're the most important person to me.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath; it's the most emotion he's betrayed since this conversation began. “John, please.”

“Please what?”

“Please,” Sherlock's voice breaks, “ _please_ come back.”

John leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock's, softly. “I'm coming back. And unless you have found some poncy Cambridge bloke you prefer, I'm coming back for _you_.” 

Sherlock rests his forehead against John's. “And what if I've found 'some poncy Cambridge bloke?'”

“I'll kick his arse.” 

They both laugh, sad and quiet. Mr. Watson calls them again.

John's chest hurts and he's terrified and he's so in love. As Sherlock starts to pull back, he follows and frantically captures the other boy's lips again. It deepens quickly, Sherlock's hands in fists against his chest in an effort to stop himself from wrinkling John's new uniform.

“Tell me that you know,” Sherlock says, breaking away suddenly. His eyes frantically search John's face. “I haven't said it, but please, please tell me you know—“

“Of course I know. I know, Sherlock. You've never had to say it.”

They stand up and clasp hands, walking out into the hallway. Sherlock's grip is tight; it feels as though he's trying to break John's fingers.

When they get to the front door, his parents and Harry are waiting with proud, sad faces. His mum gives the pair of them a watery smile. “Are you sure you don't want to come, Sherlock? We can drop you off back at yours afterward.”

Sherlock nods. “I'm sure.”

“Right then,” Mr. Watson says, opening the door and ushering them outside. John notices a black car idling in the street. He starts to drop Sherlock's hand, thinking of the CCTV, and stops himself. Instead, he turns to the other boy, goes up on his toes, and gives him one last kiss.

He relishes the look of surprise on Sherlock's face when he moves away.

“It'll go by quickly,” John tells him, backing up toward the car.

“You're lying,” Sherlock replies. “I can always tell.”

Something tightens in John's chest. “I love you.”

The smile Sherlock gives him is sad. “Well, that one was the truth, at least.”

–

Hours later, John's train speeds north. Training awaits. He tries not to dwell on the way his mum and his sister cried, or the hug his father gave him before he went to check in. He especially tries not to think of Sherlock's face as he had got into the car bound to the station.

Instead, John focuses on the positive: the excitement he can feel coursing through his veins, the taste he has for danger. The conviction that he's doing the right thing. The anticipation for days in the sun, wherever he ends up.

He's always preferred hot weather, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I must thank my beta, [sureaintmebabe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sureaintmebabe/pseuds/sureaintmebabe) for her invaluable help with this story. She has been a real angel, listening to me rant and rave like a crazy person and giving me helpful advice. This story would be terrible without her help. You should all go hug her immediately.
> 
> If you're curious about the possibility of a sequel, please go read the post at my [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who joined me on this crazy journey! I'm really grateful for all the love and support this story has received--I can hardly believe it. You're all wonderful, and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> <3<3archie


	31. Sequel

Just a note to all my subscribers: the first chapter for the sequel to 'At Seventeen' has just been posted! It is called 'The Thorny Path' and is here on AO3.

I will take this note down in a day or two--just wanted to give everyone a head's up! :-). Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to interact with me/listen to me ramble about writing this challenge/talk to me about Sherlock and other fandoms, please visit [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)!


End file.
